THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 


TEE 

SWING  Of   *" 
THE  PENDULUM 


ADRIANA  SPADONI 


BONI     AND     LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  INC. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


First  printing,  December,  1919 
Second  printing,  February,  1920 

Third  printing,  April,  W20 
Fourth  printing,  August,  1920 
Fifth  printing,  February,  1921 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PARTI 


498693 


CHAPTER  ONE 

JEAN  NORRIS  came  slowly  down  the  Library  steps, 
passed  the  Chemistry  Building,  and  took  the  worn 
path  across  the  campus  to  the  brush-lined  creek.  The 
hot  stubble  burned  through  her  white  canvas  shoes  and 
fine,  gray  dust  powdered  the  mortarboard  and  black 
graduating  gown  she  carried  over  her  arm.  With  one 
stride  she  crossed  the  trickle  of  water  and  scrambled 
up  the  opposite  bank. 

"Lord !"  She  drew  a  deep  Ijreath  of  the  shaded  cool 
ness  and,  taking  off  the  mortarboard,  ran  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  under  the  heavy  plait  of  pale  brown  hair. 
"Thank  God  this  day  is  nearly  over."  She  dropped  to 
the  carpet  of  dead  leaves  under  the  scrub  oak  and,  with 
her  knees  drawn  up  to  her  cliin  and  her  arms  clasped 
about  them,  looked  out  through  the  lattice  of  green. 
With  definite  appraisal  her  gray  eyes  went  slowly  from 
one  building  to  another,  out  across  the  parched  campus, 
past  the  grateful  green  of  the  entrance  oaks,  to  the 
strip  of  town  beyond  and  the  Bay,  glittering  in  the  hot 
May  sun.  A  tolerant  smile  flicked  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

It  was  over  at  last.  The  four  long,  interminable 
years  had  culminated  in  a  series  of  fitting  ceremonies. 
All  day  streams  of  students  had  flowed  through  the 
buildings,  swept  the  campus,  overflowed  into  the  town. 
Well  dressed  parents  from  San  Francisco  and  coun 
try  parents,  uncomfortable  in  their  unusual  clothes, 
had  rushed  helplessly  about,  harassed  by  the  neces 
sity  of  remembering  many  directions,  of  being  in  certain 
spots  at  certain  moments,  of  not  asking  foolish  ques- 


2  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

tions  and  so  disgracing  their  children.  Flustered  and 
important,  the  graduating  class  had  appropriated  the 
earth. 

Through  the  throng,  instructors  and  assistant  pro 
fessors  had  moved  with  weary,  anxious  faces  as  if,  in  the 
graduating  of  each  class,  they  heard  another  hour 
strike  in  the  clock  of  their  lives.  Committees,  distinct 
with  colored  badges,  exhausted  with  importance,  had 
misread  hours  and  locations,  given  directions  in  college 
vernacular  so  explicit  that  no  stranger  could  under 
stand  them,  overlapped,  performed  one  another's  duties, 
apologized,  pretended  it  was  all  going  smoothly.  Every 
where  wellbred,  managed  confusion  had  exuded  like  a 
fog. 

Exactly  at  twelve,  in  a  silence  so  intense  that  even 
the  sun  hung  waiting  in  the  zenith,  the  graduating  class 
had  wound  its  last  solemn  pilgrimage  across  the 
campus.  First  the  aged  president,  bent,  as  if  in 
scholastic  humility,  beneath  the  great  weight  of  his 
Doctor's  scarlet  hood.  Then  the  guests  of  honor, 
sleek  and  prosperous  men,  followed  by  the  professors 
in  order  of  their  rank  and  departments,  and  finally  five 
hundred  students,  two  by  two,  awed  by  the  seriousness 
of  what  lay  before  them. 

To  Jean  it  had  seemed  hours  while  the  aged  president 
piped  of  Life's  ideals,  the  security  of  college,  the  pit 
falls  of  the  world.  Each  May,  for  twenty  years,  he  had 
stood  so,  each  year  a  little  more  bent,  and  piped  of  the 
world  beyond.  Parents  had  furtively  wiped  their  eyes 
and  students  made  heroic  resolves. 

Then,  with  a  trembling  gesture  of  his  strengthless 
hands,  he  had  offered  the  graduating  class  to  Life. 
One  by  one  they  had  filed  up,  received  their  diplomas 
and  hurried  back  to  their  places  under  scattered  puffs 
of  applause  from  relatives.  It  had  seemed  to  Jean  that 
it  would  never  end,  but  forever  black  gowned  figures 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  3 

would  be  going  forward  to  get  slender  rolls  of  white 
paper. 

In  the  general  confusion  of  congratulations  that  fol 
lowed,  Jean  had  caught  sight  of  her  mother,  slipping 
unobtrusively  away.  She  had  not  expected  her  mother 
to  seek  her  out,  but  there  was  something  so  small,  so 
self-effacing  in  the  figure  hurrying  to  take  up  again  the 
endless  round  of  duties  which  the  graduation  had  mo 
mentarily  interrupted,  that  Jean's  eyes  had  filled  with 
tears  and  she  had  escaped  from  the  chattering  crowds 
as  quickly  as  possible. 

Now  it  was  all  over.  The  deserted  campus  lay  silent 
in  the  late  afternoon  sun,  and  the  empty  buildings 
rested  from  the  ceaseless  chatter.  So  alive  was  the 
Future,  waiting  for  the  signal  to  start,  that  when  the 
clock,  hidden  in  the  woodbine  of  the  Library  tower, 
struck  four,  Jean  jumped  to  her  feet,  shook  her  shoul 
ders  as  if  freeing  them  from  the  clutch  of  the  years 
behind,  and  turned  away. 

"It  may  be  peaceful — I  suppose  it  is.  But  so's  the 
grave." 

As  she  came  into  the  cool  dimness  of  the  Girls'  Rest 
Hall,  Patricia  Farnsworth  rose  from  a  hammock. 

"Well,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  where  have  you  been?  I 
looked  everywhere,  until  I  couldn't  stand  another 
minute." 

"If  you  looked  as  violently  as  you  appear  to  be  doing 
this  instant,  I  don't  wonder  you  didn't  find  me.  Library 
— off  the  main  line  of  travel — only  safe  place  to-day." 

"Never  thought  of  it.  Gee,  but  I'm  all  in.  I  wouldn't 
graduate  twice  for  a  thousand  dollars." 

Jean  threw  her  cap  and  gown  on  a  couch  and 
stretched  beside  them. 

"Well,  twice  wouldn't  be  so  bad,  if  you  did  it  just  for 
yourself.  But  when  you  insist  on  doing  it  for  the  whole 
class,  Pat,  of  course " 

"Oh,  shut  up.    Somebody's  got  to  do  the  dirty  work. 


4  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Fond  parents  loose  their  moorings  and  drift  worse  than 
sheep." 

"  'Moored  sheep  drifting !'  Patsy,  how  on  earth  did 
you  ever  make  Hoppy's  English?" 

Pat  giggled  down  to  the  depths  of  her  stocky  body. 
"  'Moored  sheep,'  is  going  some,  but  honestly  they  were 
worse.  I  told  one  bewildered  old  party  a  dozen  times 
if  I  told  him  once,  that  all  exercises  were  scheduled  for 
out  of  doors  and  nothing  was  taking  place  in  the  coal- 
cellar  of  North  Hall.  He  had  a  perfect  obsession  on 
the  cellar.  Wandered  into  it  every  time  I  turned  my 
back." 

"Well?  How  was  he  to  know  that  everything 
was  being  managed — 'with  an  executive  precision 
never  before  equaled  in  the  handling  of  so  large  a 
class'?" 

"Get  out.  It's  all  right  for  you  to  talk  when  you 
wouldn't  be  on  a  committee  to  oblige  the  President  of 
the  United  States." 

"I  would  not.  Of  all  the  piffling  rubbish !  If  you  all 
feel  as  badly  as  you  pretend  to  do  at  getting  out  of  the 
cage,  why  don't  you  just  go  and  get  your  diplomas 
and  sneak  away  to  weep  in  private?  And  if  you're  not 
sorry  to  get  out,  and  feel  like  this — this  mess  of  jubila 
tion,  why  don't  you  say  so  ?  Conventional  sentimental 
ity  !  It  makes  my  tummy  turn  over." 

"You  ought  to  be  all  turned  over  and  spanked,  Jean. 
Some  day  you're  going  to  be  found  frozen  stiff  in  your 
own  logic." 

"Pat  Farnsworth,  I  wouldn't  mind  beginning  in- 
stanter.  I  never  was  so  hot  in  my  life.  Me  for  tea. 
On  a  day  like  this  my  English  grandparent  bellows  for 
his  tea." 

"Bellow  on,  George  III.  I'll  get  it.  I've  been  cool 
ing  off  for  an  hour."  Pat  started  for  the  kitchen  with 
the  same  vigorous  efficiency  that  ran  her  many  commit- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  5 

tees,  paused,  and  with  an  almost  shy  smile  at  Jean, 
crossed  to  the  front  door  and  locked  it.  "We  don't 
want  any  one  butting  in,  do  we?" 

Jean  had  risen  and  now  she  put  her  arm  about  Pat's 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  Patsy,"  she  whispered,  "when  you're  gone " 

"Don't  Jean.  Don't.  Something  will  turn  up.  It 
must." 

Jean's  lips  trembled.  "When  you  say  it  like  that  I 
feel  sure  myself  for  a  minute.  But " 

"Are  Tom  and  Elsie  going  to  stay  att  summer?" 

"Yes.  This  is  the  supreme  chance  of  mummy's  life 
to  make  herself  uncomfortable,  and  she  won't  lose  it." 

"Don't,  Jeany.  I  hate  you  when  you're  bitter  like 
that." 

"I  can't  help  whether  you  do  or  not.    It's  true." 

Jean's  arm  dropped  from  Pat's  shoulder  and  she 
stood  frowning.  "I  have  never  been  able  to  make  you 
understand,  but  nobody  who  hasn't  lived  and  breathed 
and  petrified  in  Christian  Duty  for  years  could.  It's 
the  wickedest,  most  hellish  misconception  the  brain  of 
man  ever  conceived  to  make  this  rotten  scheme  of  things 
rottener.  It's  done  more  harm  in  the  world  than  the 
Seven  Deadly  Sins  put  together.  It " 

"Don't,  Jean." 

"You  were  brought  up  where  religion  was  a  kind  of 
entree,  but  with  mummy  it's  the  whole  meal  from  soup 
to  fmgerbowls.  God  lives  right  in  the  house  with  us, 
and  interferes  in  everything  we  do.  Think  of  it,  Patsy. 
For  thirty  years,  mummy  hasn't  eaten  a  meal  she  didn't 
cook  herself.  That  translation  I'm  going  to  do  for 
Renshaw  would  give  us  a  couple  of  weeks  somewhere. 
And  are  we  going?  No.  Because  Tom  Morton,  who 
was  some  distant  relative  of  father's,  who's  been  dead 
for  eighteen  years  and  whom  mummy  didn't  love  when 
he  was  alive,  chooses  to  appear  from  nowhere  and 


6  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

clump  himself  and  his  fool  wife  and  disgusting  baby  on 
us,  mummy  conceives  it  her  duty  to  stay  all  summer 
cooking  for  them,  and  waiting  on  that  idiot  Elsie  be 
cause  she's  going  to  have  another.  It  makes  my  soul 
shiver,  it  makes  me  so  mad.  And  I  know  *what  will 
happen.  You  talk  about  my  logic.  It's  mummy  who 
has  all  the  logic  in  our  family.  Because  she's  saddled 
with  these  she'll  say  she  might  just  as  well  have  others, 
and  we'll  have  every  slab-chested  old  maidfwho  comes  to 
summer-school  and  wants  to  get  the  best 'food 'in  town 
for  nothing.  Mummy  will  roast  all  July  and  August 
and  say  they  were  very  nice  people  as*  long  as  they  don't 
turn  her  out  of  her  own  house." 

"Can't  you  make  her  see  that — — " 

"Make  her  see!  What  chance  have  I  against  God 
Almighty?  You  don't  understand  the  basis  of  the 
whole*  business.  'Whom  the  Lord  loveth,  He  chasten- 
eth.'  When  He  stops  loving  He  stops  chastening.  So 
it's  up  to  the  believers  to  get  all  the  chastening  there 
is." 

"Don't,  Jean.  There  must  be  more  in  it  than  that." 
Jean  dabbed  at  her  eyes  and  crossing  to  the  sink  filled 
the  kettle  for  tea. 

"Well,  maybe  there  is.  But  when  you  live  with  if 
you're  too  near  to  see  it.  It's  either  that,  all  summer 
long,  waiting  for  something  to  turn  up  out  of  the  blue, 
or  going  away  to  teach.  Sometimes  I  don't  know  which 
is  worse." 

"Now,  Jean,  we've  hashed  that  over  and  settled  it  a 
million  times.  It's  ridiculous.  After  all  you  are  rather 
like  mummy,  you  know.  There  are  millions  of  things 
to  do  when  you've  got  ordinary  intelligence,  but  just 
because  you  loathe  teaching  you've  picked  it  out  as  the 
one  thing  that'll  come  your  way.  How  about  that 
translation?  How  do  you  know  it  won't  lead  to  some 
thing  else?" 

"Because  I  want  it  to  so  terribly  hard,  Patsy.     I 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  7 

know,  Pat,  I  suppose  I  do  rant,  but  I  guess  I've  got 
what 'Dr.  Harper  calls  'The  Imagination  for  Pain.'  I 
do  want  things  sojhard  that  I  just  can't  imagine  getting 
them." 

"Doesn't  say  much  for  your  imagination,  no  matter 
what  Harper  calls  it.  But  it  isn't  that.  It's  just  con 
ceit,  not  another  thing.  You're  so  proud  of  that  an 
alytic  brain  of  yours  that  you  work  it  on  everything. 
The  minute  you  get  a  glimpse  of  some  happiness  you 
drag  it  into  that  mental  laboratory  and  tear  off  its 
flesh,  and  you  never  stop  until  you've  busted  the  poor 
old  skeleton  to  bits.  Why  can't  you  let  things  go  about 
with  their  clothes  on?" 

"I  do." 

"No,  you  don't.  And  when  you  do  get  it  stripped  it 
isn't  any  more  of  a  truth  than  it  was  with  its  clothes 
on." 

Pat's  color  deepened  and  she  looked  away  in  genuine 
embarrassment,  for  in  the  emotional  reticence  of  their 
friendship  they  were  oddly  like  two  men.  At  long 
intervals  Pat's  love  and  admiration  forced  her  to  try 
and  make  Jean  see  things  simply  and  clearly  as  she 
saw  them  herself. 

"And  it's  such  a  lonely  job,  sitting  there  by  yourself 
prying  the  barnacles  off  every  old  oyster  that's  been 
struggling  to  hold  its  clothes  on  ever  since  the  world 
began." 

The  mixture  of  figures  was  too  much  for  even  Jean's 
very  genuine  mood. 

"Oh,  Patsy,  you  are  the  joy  of  my  life.  But  I  can't 
help  it  if  I  prefer  my  oysters  without  their  clothes  on." 

"Yes,  you  can.  And  I  hate  to  think  of  you  not  get 
ting  every  scrap  of  joy  there  is  in  life.  Sometimes  it 
seems  to  me  you  just  won't  take  things  when  they're 
right  under  your  nose.  Sometimes,  you  make  me  feel 
like  a  demented  ant  running  about  in  a  circle,  and  then 
again  I  know  I'm  right.  While  you  sit  round  waiting 


8  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

for  Life,  it's  being  lived  all  round  you.  And  yet,  when 
you  talk  that  way  you  make  me  feel  as  if  you  were 
sitting  away  off  on  a  cloud  somewhere,  playing  on  a 
golden  flute,  while  I'm  down  below  leading  a  circus 
parade — beating  a  drum  in  a  cloud  of  dust." 

Jean  sputtered  into  her  cup  and  put  it  down  for 
safety. 

Pat  grinned.  "Well,  the  figure  may  be  mixed,  but 
that  is  precisely  the  way  I  feel.  And  I  don't  want  you 
to  sit  up  there  always." 

"But  I  will  do  things  as  soon  as  I  get  them  to  do.  I 
can't  pretend  a  doll's  alive  when  I  know  it  isn't." 

"But  they'll  always  be  dolls  if  you  go  at  them  like 
that." 

"No,  they  won't,  Patsy.  There  must  be  some  real 
live  things  in  the  world.  And  I'm  going  to  get  them. 
Even  if  I  have  to  fall  off  my  cloud  and  break  my  golden 
flute." 

Jean  bent  and  for  a  moment  Pat's  arms  clasped  her. 
Then  they  stood  apart,  smiling. 

"All  right.  Go  to  it,  old  girl.  Only  yell  in  time  so 
that  I  can  get  out  from  under.  I  never  expect  to  have 
more  than  one  drum  in  my  life  and  I  don't  want  it 
busted.  You're  no  fairy." 

When  the  dishes  were  finished  they  locked  up,  hung 
the  key  on  its  nail  outside  among  the  wistaria,  and 
went.  At  the  corner  of  the  street,  Pat  turned  toward 
the  town,  while  Jean  continued  straight  on  toward  the 
foot  of  the  hills. 

From  his  comfortable  rocker  on  the  porch,  Tom 
Morton  looked  up  from  the  evening  paper. 

"A  great  day,  wasn't  it?"  His  broad  face  beamed 
with  unintelligent  good  humor  as  he  put  down  the 
paper  preparatory  to  a  chat.  "You  look  terribly 
important  in  that  rig,  Jean.  Makes  me  feel  like  I  don't 
know  how  to  write  my  name." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  9 

"Well,  you  won't  feel  like  that  much  longer.  It's 
the  hottest  rig  ever  invented." 

"You  all  did  look  kind  of  red  round  the  gills.  I  say, 
Jean,  who  was  that  girl  that  got  the  gold  medal?  Didn't 
look  to  me  like  she  was  terrible  smart." 

"She  stood  higher  than  anybody  else." 

"Wasn't  you  due  for  something  extra?  Seems  to  me 
a  girl  that  gets  a  job  helping  a  professor  at  his  own 
work  must  be  some  bright." 

"It's  not  really  much  of  a  job,  just  a  few  weeks." 

"Graft,  them  medals,  I  guess,  like  everything  else. 
There  isn't  a  field  in  this  country  to-day " 

But  Jean  had  disappeared. 

In  the  hall  she  almost  collided  with  Elsie,  trailing 
wearily  from  the  kitchen  with  a  great  bowl  of  salad. 
Elsie  put  down  the  bowl  and  caught  at  her. 

"Oh,  Jeany !  It  was  too  wonderful.  I  never  was  so 
thrilled  in  my  life !  I  don't  believe  I  ever  realized  what 
college  could  mean  before.  If  I  only  had  had  the 
chance!  When  I  heard  that  darling  old  man  talking 
about  life — oh,  Tommykins  has  just  got  to  go  when  he 
grows  up,  if  we  starve  to  put  him  through." 

"Can't  be  done  without  food,  Elsie."  By  a  supreme 
effort  Jean  succeeded  in  speaking  lightly,  but  when 
Elsie  showed  signs  of  being  about  to  kiss  her,  Jean  es 
caped  to  the  kitchen. 

As  she  entered,  Martha  Norris  emptied  the  creamed 
celery  into  a  blue  willow  dish,  and  wiped  her  damp  fore 
head  with  her  apron.  Her  mouth  drooped  with  fatigue 
but  she  smiled.  Jean  crossed  the  room  quickly  and 
took  her  mother  in  her  arms. 

"Mummy,  you're  not  going  to  have  a  bad  headache?" 
She  framed  the  small  face  in  both  hands  and  looked 
down  into  her  mother's  faded  eyes. 

"Why,  no,  dear.  It's  just  the  heat  and  the  excite 
ment.  It's  been  a  big  day  for  me,  Jean.  Then  I  got  a 
little  late  and  that  always  flurries  me." 


10  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jean  drew  her  mother  closer.  "I'm  not  going  to  let 
you  work  like  this  any  more.  You're  going  to  take 
things  easier  now  I'm  through,  whether  you  want  to  or 
not." 

"Now,  Jeany,  you  know  I'd  be  perfectly  miserable 
idle." 

"There's  a  lot  of  difference  between  idleness  and 
this."  Jean's  hand  swept  the  hot  kitchen  and  the 
stove  covered  with  pans.  "You  slave  and  what  for? 
They  don't  even  thank  you." 

Martha  Norris  laid  her  work-scarred  hand  on  Jean's 
arm. 

"You  forget,  dear — 'Whatever  ye  do,  do  it  all  to  the 
glory  of  God.'  And  it  means  everything,  just  as  it 
says,  even  washing  pots  and  pans." 

Jean's  arms  dropped  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
rigid  little  body  within  stepped  back  almost  with  a  sense 
of  release.  It  was  as  if  her  mother  had  stood  so  long 
alone,  that  any  other  expression  must  always  be  a 
slight  strain. 

"Shall  I  serve  the  beef,  mummy?"  Jean  picked  up 
an  oven  cloth  and  moved  to  the  stove. 

"No,  dear.  It'll  spatter  and  your  dress  is  as  clean 
as  when  you  put  it  on.  If  you'll  just  cube  up  the 
cheese — I  am  getting  behind  and  it's  almost  six  now." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

AS  Jean  had  predicted,  the  summer  was  a  hard  one, 
Martha  Norris  insisted  on  taking  summer  stu 
dents  to  board,  closing  every  argument  against  it  with 
gentle  insistence  on  her  own  preference. 

"If  you  really  want  me  to  be  happy,  Jean,  let  me 
manage  the  house  as  long  as  I  can." 

That  she  might  some  day  be  physically  dependent 
on  others  was  the  one  fear  that  her  deepest  prayers 
had  not  been  able  to  out-root.  So  Jean  yielded. 

All  summer  the  house  was  crowded.  The  long,  hot 
days  were  followed  by  long,  monotonous  evenings,  filled 
with  the  complacent  mediocrity  of  the  fat  Tom,  the 
whinings  of  the  ill-trained  Tommy  kins,  the  nagging  of 
Elsie. 

The  boarders  ate  hurriedly  and  had  no  topics  of 
conversation  except  the  schools  from  which  they  came 
and  the  courses  they  were  taking.  For  the  most  part 
they  were  women  past  middle  age,  all  driven  by  neces 
sity  of  one  kind  or  another,  always  striving  to  get 
as  much  for  as  little  as  possible.  They  seemed  to 
Jean  to  have  been  cheated  of  something  and  to  be  re 
sentful,  some  fiercely  and  some  in  a  timid  way  that 
was  pitiful.  Most  of  them  thoroughly  hated  their 
work,  which  they  defended  in  high-sounding  phrases 
against  the  attacks  of  outsiders,  and  tore  to  pieces 
among  themselves. 

When  Jean  hoped  she  would  never  have  to  teach, 
they  looked  at  her  venomously  and  said  it  was  a  won 
derful  work  for  which  few  were  naturally  fitted.  They 
were  like  wax-works,  most  of  them,  rather  scarred  and 


12  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

worn,  wound  up  and  kept  going  by  the  fear  of  a 
younger  generation,  a  newer  output  from  the  educa 
tional  factories,  who  might  usurp  their  places. 

The  only  bright  spot  was  the  translation  with  Pro 
fessor  Renshaw.  Jean  buried  herself  for  hours  in  the 
library  and  even  succeeded  sometimes  in  escaping  din 
ner  on  the  ground  that  it  was  too  far  to  go  home  and 
back  again  in  the  evening. 

But  as  the  weeks  passed  and  the  work  neared  com 
pletion,  she  found  it  difficult  to  keep  the  hope  that 
every  letter  from  Pat  held  out : 

"Something  will  happen.  It  must.  You  see,  Horace 
will  rescue  you  yet.'* 

"Tell  him  to  hurry,"  Jean  wrote  back  toward  the 
end  of  August.  "I  feel  the  walls  of  an  ungraded  coun 
try  school  closing  about  me." 

With  her  mother,  Jean  never  discussed  the  subject, 
for  she  knew  that  every  night,  to  the  long  list  of  bless 
ings  Martha  enumerated  and  the  few  favors  she  asked 
of  Heaven,  was  added  a  petition  that  "a  way  would  be 
opened  up  to  Jean."  It  made  Jean  furious  to  be 
prayed  over  and  sometimes  she  felt  that  having  to 
teach  would  be  almost  compensated  by  proving  the 
inefficacy  of  prayer. 

But  when  the  release  came,  Jean  forgot  her  anger, 
swooped  down  upon  Martha  in  the  kitchen,  took  the 
paring  knife  from  her  hands,  and  waltzed  her  mother 
about  the  room. 

"Now,  mummy,  you've  simply  got  to  stop.  I  can 
not  divulge  the  greatest  news  of  the  age  while  you  pick 
worms  out  of  an  apple." 

"There  aren't  any  worms  in  these.  I  made  Joe  take 
those  others  back  and  change  them.  It  was  robbery. 
Well,  dear,  what  is  it?" 

"Mummy,  you've  got  to  promise  to  be  excited.  I'm 
just  about  ready  to  go  up  in  smoke." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  19 

"I  wouldn't  do  that  if  I  were  you.  I'd  tell  the  per 
son  I  wanted  to  excite  what  it  was  about.  Did  Dr. 
Renshaw  double  the  check?" 

"Better.     Heaps." 

"He's  got  more  translation.     I  knew " 

"Oceans  better  than  that." 

"Well,  I'm  sure "  The  clock  struck  five.  Martha 

removed  Jean's  arms  gently  but  firmly  from  her  shoul 
ders  and  turned  back  to  the  table. 

Jean  laughed.  "I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  let  you 
enjoy  it  in  your  own  way.  Go  on  and  finish.  Then 
wash  your  hands  and  sit  down  on  the  hardest,  most  un 
comfortable  chair  and  I'll  tell  you." 

"Don't  be  silly,  dear.  It  doesn't  matter  what  it  is, 
I  shall  have  to  have  dinner  on  time  to-night,  won't  I?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  the  animals  would  have  to  be  fed 
even  if  the  ark  was  sinking." 

Jean  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  watched  her 
mother  trim  the  pie  edges,  with  sure,  quick  strokes 
and  her  whole  attention.  When  Martha  closed  the 
oven  door,  she  glanced  at  the  clock  to  be  sure  of  the 
moment.  Before  the  astonishing  news  that  Jean  was 
about  to  divulge,  the  pies  might  be  forgotten.  Jean 
laughed  aloud. 

"Now."  Martha  smiled  as  she  took  the  chair  Jean 
indicated.  "The  court  is  in  session." 

"Well,"  began  Jean,  "I  took  that  last  lot  up  and 
he  looked  it  through  in  that  dead-fish  fashion  of  his 
without  a  word.  He  always  does,  sits  there  and  gog 
gles  as  if  he  were  just  going  to  pounce  on  a  mis 
take,  and  all  the  time  I  know  it's  all  right.  I  didn't  ex 
pect  him  to  say  anything  nice,  but  I  thought  he  might 
give  me  an  opening  and  I  had  my  little  speech  all 
ready.  'If  this  has  been  satisfactory,'  et  cetera,  but  I 
knew  if  he  didn't  say  anything  at  all  I  could  never  get 
started.  He  freezes  me  clear  through." 

"The  world  wasn't  made  in  a  day,  Jean." 


14  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"I  know  that.  But  I  never  could  see  why.  If  I 
could  do  a  miracle  at  all,  I'd  have  done  a  whopper." 

Her  mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  Jean  jumped 
down  and  knelt  beside  her. 

"I'm  sorry,  mummy.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you.  It 
was  cheap.  Only  that  was  such  an  endless  ten  minutes 
until  he  took  a  bundle  of  letters  out  of  his  pocket.  He 
said  he  had  something  he  thought  I  might  be  interested 
in,  and  then  that  human  fossil  actually  pawed  over 
those  papers  three  distinct  times  and  grunted  and 
shook  his  head  and  wondered  whether  he'd  lost  it  and 
began  all  over  again  while  I  stood  wondering." 

"That  seems  the  usual  method  of  announcing  news 
among  scholars."  A  sly  smile  twinkled  in  Martha's, 
eyes. 

"But  honestly  I  nearly  died.  I  was  trembling  like 
a  leaf." 

"Jean!" 

"Worse.  Shaking  with  ague.  Then  right  out  of 
the  bundle  he'd  looked  through  a  million  times,  he  drew 
a  letter  and  handed  it  over.  The  Mercantile  Library 
in  San  Francisco  wants  a  cataloguer  and  asks  him 
if  he  knows  one.  The  head  librarian  is  a  friend  of  his 
and  he's  recommended  me.  Do  you  hear,  mummy  Nor- 
ris?  I've  got  a  job,  got  a  job." 

For  a  moment  Martha  did  not  answer.  She  sat  with 
her  head  bent  and  her  tired  hands  at  rest  in  her  lap. 
Then  she  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"When  do  you  begin?" 

"I'm  going  over  to  see  about  it  to-morrow.'* 

"You're  not  absolutely  sure?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  I'm  going  to  be  sure  to-night  even  if  I 
never  get  it." 

"Now,  Jean.    You " 

"Don't,  mummy,  please  don't.  Don't  tell  me  any 
more  about  patience  and  the  right  thing  coming.  I've 
got  to  get  this  or  111  die," 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  15 

"It  takes  a  lot  to  kill."  Martha  spoke  quietly,  and 
getting  up,  went  over  to  the  oven. 

Jean  felt  as  if  a  spring  inside  her  had  cracked  and 
wondered  why  it  was  always  so  when  she  tried  to  talk 
to  her  mother.  Outwardly  Martha  Norris  was  the 
least  emotional  person  in  the  world  but  she  managed 
to  extract  a  lot  of  it  from  those  near  her.  The  most 
casual  conversation  usually  ended  in  a  tensity  out  of 
all  proportion  to  its  importance  and  left  Jean  with  a 
sense  of  the  futility  of  trying  to  make  things  different. 

It  was  with  a  distinct  effort  that  Jean  put  her  arms 
again  about  her  mother. 

"Now,  mummy,  I  am  going  to  get  it.  What's  more, 
I'm  going  to  move  you  over  to  the  city,  into  a  place 
that  won't  be  big  enough  for  you  to  have  any  duty  to 
any  relative  of  anybody's.  So  there.  Now  kiss  me, 
like  a  nice,  obedient  mother  should." 

Martha  smiled,  and  standing  on  her  tiptoes  kissed 
her  big  daughter.  Jean  went  whistling  from  the  room. 

When  she  had  gone  Martha  Norris  closed  her  eyes 
for  a  moment  and  a  look  of  perfect  faith  and  devotion 
flooded  her.  In  such  moments  she  was  beautiful,  like 
some  frail  saint,  glowing  with  the  fire  of  self-surrender, 
strengthened  beyond  the  power  of  human  understand 
ing.  But  no  human  being  had  ever  seen  Martha  alone 
with  her  God. 

The  next  morning  Jean  left  the  house  early.  The 
sun  touched  the  B?.^  to  millions  of  glittering  points, 
and  beyond  it,  wrapped  in  a  haze  of  smoke  and  com 
ing  heat,  the  waiting  city  sprawled  on  her  hills.  Jean 
could  feel  it,  a  magnet  drawing  her  and  all  these 
strangers  massed  together  on  the  sunny  £eck. 

As  the  boat  neared  the  dock  she  we?it  and  stood  in 
the  stern  and  looked  back  at  the  little  town,  a  mere 
spot  at  the  base  of  the  Berkeley  hills.  In  her  very 
definite  sense  of  escape  there  was  a  touch  of  sadness. 
She  was  like  a  person  who,  having  escaped  from  a 


16  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

terrible  catastrophe,  looks  back  from  a  point  of  safety 
and  mingles  with  his  sincere  gratitude,  a  regret  for 
some  small  souvenir  he  has  been  unable  to  take  with 
him.  She  thought  of  Elsie  in  her  dragging  kimono  wait 
ing  on  Tom  at  breakfast ;  of  the  dead,  habitual  kiss 
they  would  exchange  when  he  started  to  look  for  the 
job  he  never  found;  of  Tommykins,  bewildered  in  his 
disordered  world  of  alternate  slapping  and  petting. 
And  of  her  mother,  trotting  about  in  her  endless 
routine.  She  was  sorry  for  them  all. 

Waiting  in  the  outer  office  of  the  Chief  Librarian, 
Jean  felt  the  Future  coming  towards  her,  stepping 
swiftly  through  the  stillness,  a  stillness  vibrant  with 
accomplished  purpose,  the  secure  accomplishment  of 
many  thousands  of  books.  So  sharp  was  the  feeling 
that,  when  at  last  footsteps  moved  behind  the  door 
marked  "Private,"  Jean  rose  as  if  about  to  face  a 
mysterious  force,  made  suddenly  material  for  her  un 
derstanding. 

"This  is  Miss  Norris?" 

The  Chief  Librarian  stood  before  her.  He  was  tall 
and  thin  and  gray,  with  long  bony  hands  that  looked 
as  if  they  would  always  be  cold.  He  was  like  a  new 
chisel,  straight  and  narrow  and  sharp-edged.  He 
waved  Jean  back  to  her  seat  and  took  one  himself. 
Then  he  sat,  staring  beyond  %her,  as  if  his  progress 
through  the  silent  realms  of  spirit  had  been  rudely 
halted  by  this  collision  with  a  corporeal  body. 

"You've  done  library  work  before?"  The  question 
came  so  unexpectedly  that  Jean  started. 

"No."  The  monosyllable  reverberated  through  the 
ordered  stillness.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  thrown  a  stone 
at  the  Chief  Librarian. 

"Urn."  In  the  mental  isolation  of  his  daily  life, 
this  misfortune  arrested  his  pity.  "I  believe  you  did 
some  Latin  translation  for  Dr.  Renshaw?" 

"Yes,  the  Odes  of  Horace." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  17 

"Promising1 — quite.  But  of  course  Horace  is  not 
library  work."  The  tone  conveyed  that  this  was  not 
Horace's  fault,  however.  "Still,  in  this  work  you  will 
find,  Miss  Norris,  that  every  scrap  of  human  knowl 
edge  is  profitable.  I  might  almost  say  necessary.  It 
is  its  wonderful  variety,  roots  in  all  fields,  that  makes 
our  work  so  interesting." 

"It  must." 

"Exactly.  Now  the  question  is,  Miss  Norris,  would 
you  be  willing  to  begin  at  the  bottom,  sorting? 

Cataloguing  comes  next,  and  then "  But  as  if 

fearing  that  he  was  being  carried  away  in  an  excess 
of  enthusiasm,  he  qualified.  "Of  course  that  is  if  we 
find  it  mutually  satisfactory." 

"I  should  be  willing  to  begin  anywhere.  And  I  have 
done  a  little  sorting  and  cataloguing.  The  library  I 
used  for  Horace  was  in  something  of  a  mess,  and  I 
had  to  straighten  it  out  before  I  could  begin." 

"Exactly.  But  you  will  understand,  Miss  Norris, 
that  no  part  of  our  library  is  in  a  mess."  The  shadow 
of  a  smile  touched  his  lips  and  was  gone.  It  was  as 
if  a  cosmic  joke,  millions  of  miles  off,  had  been  softly 
whispered  to  him.  "And  now,  as  I  have  a  very  busy 
morning,  I  will  hand  you  over  to  my  assistant,  Miss 
MacFarland." 

He  touched  an  electric  button  in  the  wall.  With  no 
preliminary  sound  the  outer  door  opened. 

"Miss  MacFarland,  this  is  Miss  Norris,  recom 
mended  by  Dr.  Renshaw.  She  will  help  at  first  with 
the  new  consignment." 

His  tone  admitted  Miss  MacFarland  to  the  depths 
of  his  official  being.  She  nodded. 

"Will  you  come  with  me?" 

Without  waiting  for  Jean  to  answer  she  began  mov 
ing  noiselessly  away  on  her  broad,  rubber-soled  shoes. 
She  was  very  slight  and  gave  an  effect  of  deep  brown- 
ness.  She  wore  a  brown  serge  skirt  and  a  brown  silk 


18  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

waist  with  a  brown  Scotch  pebble  pin.  She  had  brown 
eyes  that  looked  muddy  through  the  thick,  myopic 
glasses,  and  a  braid  of  dank,  brown  hair  framed  her 
narrow  face. 

Through  the  big  reading  room,  empty  at  this  hour, 
Jean  followed,  down  a  rear  stairway,  along  a  narrow 
cemented  hall  into  a  storeroom,  dim  with  a  ground- 
glass  window  protected  by  an  iron  grating.  Miss  Mac- 
Farland  indicated  the  great  number  of  packing  cases 
by  a  nod  as  she  wound  her  way  among  them  to  a 
farther  door.  She  might  have  been  a  guide  in  the 
underworld  leading  the  latest  spirit  to  its  appointed 
task.  She  opened  a  door,  and  a  sudden  glare  of  morn 
ing  sunshine  filled  the  place. 

"This  is  the  room  you  will  use  for  the  present." 

There  were  two  large  windows  open  now  on  a  tiny 
strip  of  lawn  that  ran  along  this  side  of  the  building. 
A  redwood  table  and  bench  took  up  one  end  of  the 
room.  There  was  nothing  else  in  it  except  six  huge 
packing  cases, 

"I'll  send  you  down  an  apron  and  sleeve  protectors 
and  have  Timothy  unpack  the  cases." 

She  looked  about  to  make  sure  she  had  forgotten 
nothing,  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Is  there  any  special  rotation  you  want  the  cases 
opened  in?" 

Jean  asked  it  to  pretend  experience  more  than  from 
any  idea  of  its  mattering.  But  she  saw  by  the  ex 
pression  behind  the  thick  glasses  that  it  did  make  a 
difference  and  that  Miss  MacFarland  had  forgotten  to 
tell  her. 

"I  was  going  to  tell  Timothy,  but  perhaps  I  had 
better  mark  them." 

From  the  pocket  of  her  black  apron  she  drew  a 
piece  of  red  chalk. 

"The  political  economies  are  needed  in  a  hurry  and 
they  are  in  this  crate.  Then  the  histories,  natural 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  19 

science,  miscellaneous,  fiction  and  poetry.  If  you  get 
into  difficulties  you  can  telephone  up." 

When  she  had  gone  Jean  stood  for  a  moment  just 
where  she  was. 

"Oh  Patsy,  a  corpse  has  a  sense  of  humor  compared 
to  a  librarian !  But  it's  nine  a  week." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

EVERY  morning  at  eight  Jean  crossed  the  Bay 
and  every  night  at  six  she  returned.  The  trains 
and  the  boats  were  always  crowded,  and  very  shortly 
Jean  came  to  know  certain  faces  and  to  watch  for 
them.  She  liked  to  speculate  as  to  what  these  people 
did,  how  long  they  had  been  doing  it  and  whether  they 
liked  it.  When  she  had  made  up  her  mind  about  a 
man  or  woman  it  always  disappointed  her  to  have  to 
readjust  her  deductions  by  catching  scraps  of  con 
versation  that  upset  her  theories.  She  often  had  to 
do  this,  however,  because  she  was  always  making  sweep 
ing  generalizations  based  on  tenuous  details.  There 
were  certain  groups  that  came  and  went  together,  and 
although  they  seemed  to  have  no  connection  beyond 
this  short  trip  twice  a  day,  they  always  looked  eagerly 
for  each  other  as  if  in  dread  of  having  to  make  the 
journey  alone.  They  resented  ever  having  to  sit  any 
where  except  in  their  usual  places,  and  each  group 
surrounded  itself  with  a  barrier  of  self-centered  interest 
that  separated  it  from  every  other  self-centered 
group. 

At  first  Jean  ate  lunch  with  Miss  MacFarland  and 
two  other  women  workers,  but,  as  she  wrote  to  Pat, 
it  made  her  feel  "like  a  mouse  nibbling  at  the  edges 
of  a  book,"  and  as  soon  as  she  could,  broke  the  ar 
rangement,  and  took  her  lunch  to  a  nearby  park. 
Here  in  the  seclusion  of  a  thick  hedge,  little  birds 
came  for  crumbs  and  beyond  the  hedge,  unseen  people 
crunched  the  gravel  and  Jean  caught  scraps  of  their 
talk,  unconnected  bits,  like  scraps  of  patchwork. 

20 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  21 

She  liked  to  tell  Miss  MacFarland  about  these  un 
seen  people,  draw  pictures  of  the  comedies  and 
tragedies  beyond  the  hedge,  because  Miss  MacFarland 
always  listened  so  politely  and  looked  so  puzzled.  Her 
thick  brown  eyes  searched  vaguely  for  the  point  of  the 
story,  and  Jean  knew  it  was  only  because  the  catalogu 
ing  was  well  done,  that  Miss  MacFarland  did  not  con 
sider  her  a  lunatic. 

But  as  the  weeks  passed  and  the  newness  of  the  work 
dulled  to  a  routine  of  writing  the  names  of  books  on 
cards  and  putting  numbers  after  them,  Jean  began  to 
wonder  whether  in  time,  she,  too,  might  not  come  to 
look  vaguely  for  the  point  of  a  story,  and  prefer  to 
drink  strong  tea  in  a  stuffy  room.  At  first  the  idea 
amused  her  and  she  elaborated  it  in  a  whimsical  letter 
to  Pat,  but  with  the  coming  of  the  winter  rains,  the 
whimsy  died,  and  the  vision  of  herself  in  broad-toed 
shoes  and  black  silesia  sleeve  protectors,  began  to  fol 
low  her  home  every  night.  Now  the  crowds  on  the 
boat  were  damp  and  peevish  and,  when  the  boat  docked, 
each  scuttled  for  his  own  shelter,  indifferent  to  the 
others. 

But  it  was  on  wet  Sundays  that  Miss  MacFarland 
persisted  beyond  Jean's  power  to  dislodge.  Then  Tom 
lounged  all  day  in  smoking  jacket  and  slippers,  drop 
ping  into  brief  slumber  in  his  chair,  while  Tommykins 
cut  up  the  colored  supplement  of  the  day's  paper  on 
the  floor.  Martha  prepared  elaborate  meals  and  went 
to  St.  Jude's  in  the  early  morning,  at  four  in  the  after 
noon  and  eight  at  night.  Between  cooking  and  church, 
she  read  the  lives  of  Anglican  saints,  alone  in  her  room. 

With  the  lighting  of  the  street  lamps  on  these  wet 
Sunday  nights,  the  town  sank  into  the  stillness  of 
death.  Only  once,  during  the  evening,  did  the  silence 
ever  part,  to  let  the  worshipers  from  evening  service 
slip  through.  With  soft  padding  of  rubbered  feet,  a 
few  figures  slipped  by  the  window,  stealthily,  as  if 


22  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

afraid  of  desecrating  the  holiness  of  the  Sabbath  by 
any  motion  of  their  bodies. 

At  exactly  five  minutes  before  ten,  Martha  came 
cool-skinned  from  the  dampness.  If  Jean  was  in  bed, 
Martha  always  sat  for  a  few  moments  on  the  edge. 
They  never  had  anything  particular  to  talk  about,  be 
cause  nothing  ever  happened  in  the  interim  of  her 
absence.  But  in  these  visits,  Martha  would  strip  bits 
of  the  sermon  from  their  religious  setting  and  offer 
them  off-hand  to  Jean's  intelligence.  She  never  urged 
Jean  to  go  to  service,  but  Jean  knew  that  in  this 
simulated  comradeship  on  the  bed,  her  mother  was  try 
ing  to  keep  her  in  touch  with  "holy  things,"  to  counter 
act  in  a  small  part  the  godlessness  of  her  days.  And 
sometimes  it  made  her  want  to  cry;  the  little  figure, 
carefully  stripping  away  the  phrases  that  annoyed,  and 
trying  to  link  up  some  old,  dead  form  with  the  rush  of 
life,  was  so  alone  in  all  that  meant  most  to  it.  Alone 
with  God  and  unaware  of  loneliness.  So  content  with 
nothing. 

It  was  after  a  particularly  depressing  Sunday  in 
January  that  Jean  came  back  to  work  on  Monday 
morning  with  so  fixed  a  certainty  of  becoming  in  the 
end  like  Miss  MacFarland,  that  not  even  the  relief  of 
an  unexpected  blue  sky  after  days  of  rain,  and  respite 
of  lunch  in  the  park  had  been  able  to  dispel  it.  Now, 
in  mid-afternoon,  she  stood  by  the  open  window,  wait 
ing  for  Timothy  with  a  fresh  supply  of  books.  It  was 
one  of  those  perfect  days  between  rains  when  sun 
shine  filters  clean  air,  and  cool  little  breezes  lurk  in 
the  shade.  The  narrow  strip  of  lawn  below  the  window 
sent  up  a  spicy  sweetness  that  made  Jean  resent  the 
walls  about  her,  three  more  hours  of  cataloguing  and 
all  the  restrictions  that  hemmed  one  in  against  one's 
will.  The  air  had  a  livingness  in  it  that  mocked  any 
gratitude  for  these  few  moments  she  was  free  to  enjoy 
it.  Looking  up  at  the  fleecy  tufts  of  white  clouds 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  23 

drifting  in  the  blue,  Jean  felt  as  a  very  poor  person 
feels  watching  the  wasteful  extravagance  of  the  rich. 
Something  in  her  called  to  the  perfect  freedom  of  the 
little  clouds,  the  inexhaustible  blueness  in  the  sky,  the 
tingle  in  the  air.  She  felt  stifled,  held  by  something 
she  could  not  see,  kept  from  something  she  had  never 
had. 

Jean  was  decidedly  cross.  She  wondered  whether, 
if  she  told  Miss  MacFarland  she  was  ill  and  wanted 
to  leave  earlier,  because  it  was  such  a  lovely  day,  the 
thick  brown  eyes  would  bore  into  the  truth,  and  what 
would  happen  if  they  did?  Would  Miss  MacFarland 
ever  forgive  an  assistant  who  wanted  to  stop  work 
ing  because  there  were  little  white  clouds  in  the  sky? 

"Oh  Lord!"  Jean  leaned  out  the  window,  drawing 
deep  sniffs  of  the  damp  earth. 

"Miss  Norris." 

Jean  jerked  back  quickly  and  the  blood  flooded 
under  her  fair  skin  at  the  sight  of  the  Chief  Librarian 
standing  beside  her. 

"Miss  Norris,  this  is  Mr.  Herrick.  Franklin  Her- 
rick  of  the  Sunday  Times" 

He  beckoned  to  some  one  still  in  the  shadow  of  the 
storeroom  and  the  next  moment  a  tall  man  with  a  young 
face  and  thick  fair  hair  stood  looking  at  Jean.  Jean 
never  knew  afterwards  whether  it  was  her  own  em 
barrassment  or  not,  but  in  that  first  glance  at  Franklin 
Herrick  she  had  a  strange  impression  of  receiving  a 
very  distinct  picture  of  something  naturally  indistinct. 
He  gave  a  feeling  of  great  physical  strength  and  yet 
looked  as  if  he  would  always  be  too  lazy  to  use  it. 
His  eyes  were  clear,  deep  blue  and  far  apart,  as  if  he 
went  through  life  seeing  very  clearly.  But  the  lower 
part  of  his  face  was  heavy  and  his  mouth  contradicted 
his  eyes.  It  was  soft  and  full  and  not  at  all  hidden 
under  a  small,  close-cropped  mustache.  There  was 
something  large  and  curved  and  whitish  about  this 


24,  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

tall  man  standing  before  her,  with  the  faintest  touch 
of  amusement  in  his  eyes,  that  made  Jean  think  of  the 
big  gulls  that  circled  over  the  ferryboat  night  and 
morning.  She  bowed  slightly  and  wished  she  could  stop 
blushing. 

"Mr.  Herrick  is  doing  some  special  work  and  will 
need  Division  Z  21,  which  I  understand  is  not  yet 
catalogued.  If  you  have  no  objection  he  might  work 
down  here,  as  Miss  MacFarland  tells  me  you  are  on 
Z  21  now  and  it  would  save  him  time." 

The  Chief  Librarian  spoke  in  a  dry,  thirsty  tone 
and  with  fixed  pauses,  so  that  one  got  the  impression 
of  hearing  the  punctuation.  And  although  he  asked 
permission,  his  tone  conveyed  that  Franklin  Herrick 
would  work  in  the  basement  whether  it  were  convenient 
to  Jean  or  not. 

"That  will  be  all  right.  I  began  Z  21  Saturday." 
Jean  felt  compelled  to  say  something  and  at  the  same 
time  the  uselessness  of  saying  it.  "There's  a  small  table 
in  the  storeroom.  I'll  have  Timothy  bring  it  in." 

"Oh,  no,  please  don't  do  that.  It's  not  necessary 
— unless  you  prefer  it." 

Franklin  Herrick  spoke  rapidly  in  a  high,  thin  voice. 
It  caught  and  held  Jean's  attention  as  the  tinkle  of  a 
small  bell  would  have  done,  if  unconsciously  she  had 
been  expecting  a  gong.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked 
at  him,  her  own  embarrassment  gone.  Herrick  under 
stood.  Extraordinarily  sensitive  to  the  impression  he 
made,  especially  on  women,  he  knew  that  the  thin 
quality  of  his  voice  had  destroyed  his  first  impression 
of  strength.  The  feminine  timbre  of  his  voice  was  a 
trial  to  Herrick  and  always  made  him  feel  at  the  mercy 
of  the  person  who  noticed  it.  He  had  tried  for  years 
to  deepen  the  tone  and  usually  made  a  conscious  ef 
fort  at  a  first  meeting.  But  for  some  reason,  coming 
on  this  big,  fair  woman  sniffing  the  air,  had  made 
him  feel  as  though  he  knew  her,  linked  them  in  mutual 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  25 

understanding  against  the  Chief  Librarian  and  made 
them  seem  like  old  acquaintances.  The  little  incident 
annoyed  him  intensely. 

He  crossed  to  the  table  and  appropriated  one  end 
by  pushing  back  the  books  in  a  business-like  fashion. 

"I  do  not  need  much  space  and  this  will  do.  I  shall 
probably  be  through  in  a  day  or  two." 

At  the  same  instant  Timothy  appeared  whistling, 
with  a  truckload  of  books.  At  sight  of  the  Chief 
Librarian  he  checked  the  whistle,  just  as  Jean  had 
stopped  sniffing,  so  suddenly  that  even  the  Chief 
Librarian  turned  and  looked  curiously. 

Jean's  eyes  met  Herrick's,  and  they  smiled.  When 
Herrick  smiled  at  a  woman  he  seemed  to  include  her 
in  something  very  intimate,  something  fine  and  delicate, 
a  little  beyond  words.  In  some  way  it  shamed  Jean  for 
the  surprise  she  had  felt  at  the  quality  of  his  voice. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  shown  surprise  at  some  physical 
defect. 

"If  there  is  anything  that  Miss  Norris  cannot  do 
for  you,  if  you  will  just  ring  that  bell."  The  Chief 
Librarian  looked  vaguely  about,  lost  in  a  world  not 
his  own,  and  went. 

Separated  by  the  length  of  the  table,  Jean  and  Her 
rick  stood  looking  after  him.  Then,  simultaneously, 
they  looked  at  each  other. 

Jean  laughed. 

"He  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  doing  something  dis 
graceful." 

"Worse.  Something  not  quite  nice."  Franklin 
Herrick  chuckled.  When  Herrick  laughed  his  voice 
was  higher  and  thinner  than  when  he  spoke,  but  when 
he  chuckled  there  was  something  warm  and  young  about 
it.  Herrick  had  discovered  this  very  early  in  life  and 
rarely  laughed  aloud.  When  women  first  heard  Frank 
lin  Herrick  chuckle  they  usually  had  an  impulse  to 
touch  him,  which  impulse  they  called  maternal  or  were 


26  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

afraid  of  according  to  their  past  experience.  Jean, 
however,  had  no  impulse  to  touch  him,  but  she  noticed 
the  chuckle  and  liked  it. 

As  she  took  her  place  at  the  table  and  watched  Her- 
rick  cross  the  room  for  a  chair,  she  felt  that  the  set 
of  his  shoulders,  the  texture  of  his  clothes,  the  very 
motions  of  his  body  as  he  lifted  the  chair,  were  not  ex 
ternal,  but  expressed  something  within  the  man,  just  as 
the  deft  motions  of  Martha's  hands  expressed  her  in 
defatigable  obedience  to  the  drudgery  of  small  things. 
And  Jean  liked  the  thing  they  expressed.  Without  de 
fining  it  in  words,  she  felt  that  it  was  something  inde 
structibly  young  and  buoyant  and  clean.  It  belonged 
with  his  eyes  and  not  at  all  with  the  rather  heavy  lines 
of  his  chin  and  throat. 

With  a  smile,  Herrick  drew  forward  a  pile  of  books, 
and  in  a  moment  was  hard  at  work.  But  only  the 
surface  of  his  brain  was  concerned  with  his  notes.  He 
knew  that,  from  time  to  time,  Jean  glanced  at  him, 
and  that,  for  some  reason,  she  had  changed  her  first 
estimate  of  him.  Vibrant  to  any  criticism,  Herrick 
resented  the  implication  that  there  had  been  a  read 
justment,  and  yet  delighted  in  the  result.  For  Jean 
looked  as  if  she  usually  made  up  her  mind  instantly 
from  trifles  and  seldom  changed.  She  looked  strong 
er  and  spiritually  simpler  than  any  woman  he  had 
ever  met,  as  if  she  had  been  born  and  raised  in  wide 
spaces  and  carried  the  standards  of  the  mountains 
with  her.  He  could  not  picture  her  large,  white  hands 
ever  trembling,  nor  her  clear,  gray  eyes  clouding  with 
indecision,  but  he  was  sure  that  if  he  let  the  least  hint 
of  this  sureness  into  his  eyes,  her  fair  skin  would  flush. 
It  was  almost  five  when  Herrick  slipped  the  notes  into 
his  pocket  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"Through?"  The  brusqueness  of  Jean's  tone  an 
noyed  him,  for  he  had  decided  to  stay  and  talk  for  a  few 
moments,  and  the  indifference  in  her  question  made  him 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  27 

feel  that  Jean  had  shut  a  door  he  was  about  to  push 
a  little  open. 

"Yes.  For  the  present.  But  I  shall  have  to  put  in 
some  licks  to-night."  He  picked  up  a  volume  and 
looked  inquiringly  at  her.  "I  don't  suppose  there 
would  be  any  objection  to  taking  this  out,  even  if  it 
isn't  ready  for  circulation  yet?" 

"I  don't  know.    It  is  against  the  rules." 

"Perfectly  good  reason  for  taking  it  then." 

"Just  let  me  have  it  a  moment.  I'll  make  out  a  slip 
and  number  it." 

He  returned  it  with  the  look  of  one  submitting  to  a 
foolish  respect  for  childish  rules  and  Jean  felt  like  Miss 
MacFarland  as  she  wrote  Herrick's  name  and  the  name 
of  the  book  on  a  pink  slip.  Herrick  put  it  into  his 
pocket. 

"Thanks.  It  will  help  a  lot  having  this.  You  can 
picture  me  digging  my  way  through  it  in  the  small, 
wee  hours,  Miss  Norris,"  he  added  as  he  took  his  hat 
and  this  time  turned  to  the  door. 

The  assumption  that  she  would  think  of  him  at  all 
annoyed  her,  and  kept  him  in  her  memory  almost  con 
stantly  for  the  next  two  days.  Jean  laid  this  to  the 
interruption  of  the  usual  routine.  Having  the  me 
chanical  intervals  of  Timothy's  appearance  broken  by 
the  unexpected  advent  of  a  newspaper  man,  who  turned 
the  rules  of  the  library  about,  gave  her  several  con 
tradictory  impressions  of  himself  and  ended  by  mak 
ing  her  feel  like  a  child,  naturally  stood  out  sharply 
in  her  day's  work.  So  for  two  days  Jean  continued  to 
think  about  Herrick  and  to  be  annoyed  because  she 
did. 

On  Thursday  Herrick  appeared  suddenly  about 
noon.  He  was  in  a  great  hurry.  He  returned  the 
book  and  took  another,  which  he  handed  to  Jean  to 
note  as  she  had  done  before.  He  seemed  preoccupied 
and  made  no  effort  at  conversation.  It  was  evidently 


28  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

an  afterthought  that  he  turned  on  the  threshold  and 
called  back: 

"Paper  goes  to  press  to-day.  Haven't  time  to 
breathe." 

Jean  had  wondered  at  his  altered  manner,  but  his 
explanation  seemed  to  accuse  her  of  having  shown  it. 
She  gave  the  slightest  possible  nod  to  acknowledge  that 
she  had  heard  him  and  went  on  with  her  work. 

On  Friday  Herrick  did  not  come.  Jean  wondered 
whether  he  was  through  with  his  work  now  that  the 
paper  had  gone  to  press,  and  just  what  special  duties 
going  to  press  involved.  It  sounded  interesting  and 
much  more  vital  than  anything  connected  with  a 
library.  An  incongruous  picture  of  the  Chief  Librarian 
rushing  something  to  press  tickled  her  fancy. 

On  Saturday,  Herrick  appeared  directly  after 
lunch. 

"Well,  back  again."  Something  in  the  tone,  the 
look  that  accompanied  them,  showed  that  he  had  missed 
coming,  and  now  entered  again  into  a  congenial 
atmosphere.  It  seemed  to  throw  them  a  long  way  for 
ward  in  mutual  understanding. 

"Going  to  press  must  be  a  ferocious  business." 
Jean  smiled  across  the  table  and  made  no  effort  to 
pretend  work.  When  Jean  smiled,  something  cold  in 
her  face  melted. 

"It  is.  I  always  feel  as  if  I  had  been  caught  in  a 
cyclone,  carried  violently  round  in  a  circle  and  de 
posited  in  the  spot  I  started  from.  You  see  there's 
the  same  pother  every  week,  and  we're  always  caught 
in  the  same  rush.  Newspaper  work's  a  rotten  grind, 
anyhow." 

"To  outsiders  it  always  sounds  nerve-racking  excite 
ment.  What  on  earth  would  you  do  if  you  had  to 
catalogue  books  all  day?" 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  29 

"That  is  pretty  bad."  Herrick's  eyes  softened  as 
they  always  did  when  he  was  making  a  woman  under 
stand  his  understanding. 

Jean  felt  that  without  meaning  to  she  had  told  this 
stranger"  a  great  deal  about  herself.  Almost  as  if  she 
had  told  him  of  her  mother,  of  Tom  and  Elsie  and 
Tommykins  and  the  long,  interminable  Sundays.  She 
flushed.  Instantly  the  understanding  vanished  from 
Herrick's  eyes  and  he  shrugged  indifferently. 

"I  suppose  anything  we  have  to  stick  at  feels  the 
same  way." 

"Did  you  get  your  work  done  the  other  night?" 
Jean  asked  it  after  a  pause  in  which  she  wondered  what 
she  could  say  that  wouldn't  sound  as  if  she  had  been 
thinking  about  him. 

"Oh  yes,  indeed.  But  it  was  a  hard  pull.  If  you 
knew  me  better,  Miss  Norris,  you  would  congratulate 
me  on  that  achievement."  He  looked  like  a  mischievous 
boy  expecting  to  be  punished. 

Jean  smiled  in  sympathy.  "What  on?  Sticking  to 
a  disagreeable  job  till  it's  done?" 

"Well,  put  that  way,  it  does  sound  rather  bald. 
But  you  see  The  Bunch  was  having  a  blowout  and  little 
Franklin  had  to  stay  in  his  attic  and  work.  Maybe 
if  you  knew  what  The  Bunch  can  do  in  the  way  of 
high  jinks,  even  you'd  be  sorry  for  me." 

"Maybe  I  would.  Are  they  such  terribly  enticing 
affairs?" 

"Oh,  sometimes  we  get  a  bit  rowdy,  but  usually  we're 
perfectly  harmless — just  conversation  and  music  and 
food  and  meeting  each  other.  We're  congenial  and 
interested  in  the  same  things,  and  keep  each  other  from 
getting  into  a  rut.  Sometimes  when  one  of  us  goes 
away  or  comes  back,  or  sells  a  picture  or  an  article,  we 
have  an  extra  celebration.  That's  all." 

"It  sounds — awfully  interesting." 


30  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Herrick  leaned  across  the  table  and  said  in  a  boy 
ish,  hesitating  fashion: 

"We  do  have  some  pretty  good  times.  If  you  think 
you'd  care  for  it,  I'd  like  immensely  to  bring  you  round 
some  evening.'* 

"I'd  love  to."    Jean  was  a  trifle  breathless. 

"Some  of  us  have  made  good  and  some  of  us  are — 
popularly  nobodies.  There's  Matthews  and  Harcourt, 
landscape,  and  Fletcher  has  done  some  fine  things  in 
bronze.  Tolletson's  in  drama  production  and  Free 
man,  Gerald  Freeman,  is  going  to  be  heard  of  with 
short  stories.  Maybe  you  know  his  stuff.  He  had  a 
story  in  Scribner's  last  month.  Then  there  are  the 
girls,  none  of  them  are  exactly  famous  yet;  and  the 
rest  of  us  just  jog  along." 

But  Jean  had  stopped  listening  at  Gerald  Free 
man's  name.  She  had  read  the  story  and  sent  it  to 
Pat.  Its  delicate  subtlety  had  haunted  her  for  days. 
And  now  she  was  being  asked  to  meet  him  and  others 
like  him.  She  was  being  asked  as  if  it  were  a  favor  to 
the  big  man  with  the  kind  eyes,  sitting  across  the  table. 
Jean  tried  to  keep  the  excitement  out  of  her  voice  as 
she  answered. 

"Yes,  I  read  that  story.     It  was  so  very — perfect." 

"Yes.  His  things  are  that,  those  half  elusive,  dream 
things.  They  always  make  me  think  of  small,  finely 
carved  ivories." 

"I  should  like  to  meet  him  very  much." 

"Well,  Freeman  himself  isn't  here  now.  He's  getting 
too  famous  to  stay  long  in  one  spot,  but — there's  the 
rest  of  us." 

Jean  felt  that  she  had  been  rude  in  her1  special  in 
terest  and  added  quickly:  "I'd  be  just  as  pleased  meet 
ing  'the  rest  of  us.'  '* 

"Then  we'll  settle  it  right  now.  Saturday's  the  best 
night.  The  unfortunates  don't  have  to  get  up  early, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  SI 

and  we  generally  have  more  hilarity  than  just  the  usual 
nightly  dinner.    Could  you  come  to-night?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  to-night." 

Jean  had  never  wanted  to  do  anything  so  much  in 
her  life,  but  she  could  not  picture  herself  ringing  up 
her  mother  and  saying  that  she  would  not  be  home  to 
dinner. 

"It  is  rather  short  notice.  How  about  next  Satur 
day?  Have  you  that  free?"  Herrick  saw  that  she 
wanted  to  come  and  wondered  why  she  couldn't. 

Under  her  pleasure  that  the  invitation  had  not  been 
postponed  indefinitely,  Jean  had  an  almost  irresistible 
desire  to  laugh  at  the  idea  of  her  having  any  night  that 
was  not  free. 

"Yes.     Next  Saturday's  all  right." 

"Then  I'll  call  for  you  about  seven?" 

"I  don't  live  on  this  side." 

The  difficulties  of  meeting  some  one  at  seven,  when 
she  would  be  through  by  half  past  five,  occurred  to 
her,  and  she  wondered  where  girls  met  men  and  how 
she  could  pretend  this  was  not  as  new  and  exciting  a 
situation  as  it  was. 

"Great.  You  get  through  about  five,  don't  you? 
I'll  call  here  and  we'll  find  some  way  to  kill  the  time 
between." 

"Fine."  Jean  made  the  monosyllable  as  comradely 
as  she  could,  and  flattered  herself  that  she  had  carried 
it  off  very  well. 

Herrick  turned  to  the  books  and  in  a  few  moments 
was  hard  at  work. 

Jean's  confusion  had  delighted  him,  and  destroyed 
the  slight  annoyance  he  had  felt  at  being  carried  away 
by  such  a  foolish  impulse  as  to  ask  her  at  all.  It 
would  be  delicious  to  watch  the  reactions  of  this  shy 
woman  in  the  sophisticated  world  of  The  Bunch.  He 
decided  to  say  nothing  about  her  beforehand,  and  en- 


32  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

joy  to  the  full  their  surprise  when  he  appeared, — a 
little  late,  he  would  see  to  that — with  Jean  in  tow. 

"She'll  hit  them  like  a  blast  of  north  wind.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  Kitten  doesn't  actually  shiver." 

The  prospect  of  watching  The  Kitten  shiver  pleased 
Herrick  immensely. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

EXACTLY  at  half  past  five  Herrick  came.  Thi> 
thick  hair  had  been  freshly  cut,  and  he  wore  a 
suit  that  Jean  had  not  seen  before.  He  looked  young 
and  very  happy  and  full  of  joy  in  life.  As  they  came 
down  the  library  steps  and  joined  the  after-matinee 
crowds,  it  seemed  to  Jean  that  Herrick  stood  out  from 
other  men,  bigger,  cleaner,  stronger.  There  was  some 
thing  in  him,  burning  below  the  flesh,  that  whitened 
and  sharpened  him,  so  that  the  lines  which  were  some 
times  dull  and  heavy  when  he  bent  intently  over  the 
books  across  the  table,  were  now  finely  cut.  He  walked 
beside  her  as  if  he  were  walking  lightly  on  springy 
ground,  and  the  memory  came  back  to  Jean  how,  the 
first  time  she  had  seen  him,  she  had  thought  of  a  gull, 
a  strong,  white  gull,  poised  in  flight.  It  was  impossible 
to  believe  that  it  was  only  two  weeks  ago,  and  that 
she  had  seen  him,  in  all,  not  more  than  seven  or  eight 
times. 

Herrick  made  no  effort  at  conversation  as  they 
threaded  their  way  through  the  crowds.  He  was  not 
at  all  sure  of  his  ground  with  Jean,  for  his  first  inter 
est  had  deepened  in  the  two  weeks  to  an  intensity  that 
surprised  him.  To  be  interested  in  a  woman  who  was 
not  obviously  pretty,  whose  life  lay  well  within  the 
circle  that  The  Bunch  called  the  Outland,  who  made 
no  effort  to  attract  him,  who  never,  by  the  slightest 
feminine  trick,  tried  to  rouse  his  interest,  a  woman 
who  had  been  through  college  and  was  earning  her 
own  living  and  yet  had  something  cloistered  about  her. 
She  piqued  Herrick's  curiosity.  One  by  one  he  had 

33 


34  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

seen  his  small  efforts  drop  like  spent  arrows  against 
the  wall  of  her  sincere  but  unemotional  interest. 

"She's  either  the  most  subtle  thing  that  God  ever 

made,  or  else "     Herrick  did  not  know  what  else. 

But  he  would  find  out. 

When  they  had  left  the  more  crowded  streets  behind, 
Herrick  stopped  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It's  only  six,  and  it's  not  much  good  getting  to 
Giuseppe's  before  seven.  What  shall  we  do?  Go 
round  to  Chinatown  and  have  tea,  or  would  you  like 
to  go  up  to  Flop's  studio?  He's  the  father  of  The 
Bunch,  you  know,  and  maybe  you'd  feel  as  if  you  knew 
him  better  if  you  saw  some  of  his  stuff  first." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her  with  a  smile  that  con 
sulted  only  her  preference,  and  showed  none  of  his  own 
eagerness  that  she  should  choose  the  latter.  When 
Franklin  Herrick  was  trying  to  break  through  the  re 
serves  of  a  woman,  he  looked  like  Sir  Galahad  going 
to  battle.  It  always  filled  the  woman  with  a  rush  of 
tenderness,  and  a  longing  to  stand  for  something  fine 
and  real  in  his  life. 

"Besides,  I'd  like  to  show  you  some  of  Flop's  stuff 
for  its  own  sake,  and  we  won't  get  a  chance  after  din 
ner,  when  the  whole  Bunch  is  there.  We  are  a  noisy 
lot,  Miss  Norris.  You  must  be  prepared  for  any 
thing." 

"Oh,  I  can  make  a  lot  of  noise  myself.  And  I'd 
like  awfully  to  see  the  pictures." 

"This  way,  then.  We'll  go  down  through  The 
Coast,  if  you  don't  mind.  It's  quicker." 

His  tone  apologized  for  the  street  into  which  he 
turned,  in  a  way  that  made  Jean  want  to  laugh  at 
the  idea  of  her  needing  protection,  and  at  the  same 
time  delighted  her.  She  had  never  been  in  this  part  of 
the  city  before,  and  she  looked  about  her  with  interest. 

Skirting  the  edge  of  Chinatown,  beyond  the  bound 
aries  of  the  big  bazaars,  they  touched  the  poorer  fringe 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  35 

of  the  Latin  quarter,  where  dirty  black-eyed  babies 
tumbled  in  dark  doorways,  and  tired  women  with 
bundles  of  food  under  their  shawls  hurried  by,  dragging 
hungry,  screaming  children  by  the  hand.  Here  the 
narrow  streets  struggled  up  steep  hillsides,  as  if  in  a 
forlorn  hope  of  reaching  quiet  above.  Everywhere  was 
dust  and  noise  and  the  harsh  voices  of  men  screaming 
at  each  other  in  the  rough  Sicilian  dialect. 

Then  down  through  the  sordid  section  that  lies  be 
tween  the  White  World  and  the  Yellow,  where  mean, 
gray  houses  cling  hopelessly  together,  like  the  poor 
for  comfort  and  outcasts  for  respectability.  Where 
the  tides  of  Barbary  Coast  wash  the  world  beyond, 
Herrick  paused.  Then  he  plunged  in. 

It  was  early  and  The  Coast  had  not  yet  come  to  life, 
but  to  Jean  it  was  filled  with  the  rumblings  of  the 
swelling  tide.  A  drunken  sailor  lurched  from  a  dance 
hall.  A  mechanical  piano  ground  out  a  popular  rag. 
A  painted  woman  with  sodden,  indifferent  eyes  looked 
from  a  window  and  laughed  shrilly.  Other  women, 
powdered  to  a  deathly  whiteness,  turned  to  stare  after 
Jean  and  Herrick.  Their  eyes  were  sometimes  scorn 
ful,  sometimes  curious.  When  they  brushed  close  to 
Jean  she  felt  herself  turn  a  little  cold  and  sick. 

Once  when  she  was  a  small  child,  while  playing  in 
the  garden  Jean  had  accidentally  plunged  her  foot 
through  the  planking  of  an  unused  well  and  had  felt 
the  cold  blackness  sucking  up.  For  months  after  she 
'had  had  a  terror  of  that  end  of  the  garden,  and  could 
feel  the  bottomless  blackness  drawing  her.  Now  the 
same  feeling  reached  out  from  these  painted  women, 
and  Jean  drew  a  little  closer  to  Herrick.  There  was 
something  horrible  and  black  and  hidden,  the  same  black 
oozing  mud  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  old  well. 
These  men  and  women  who  moved  and  talked  like  her 
self  and  Herrick  were  down  there,  crawling  about. 


86  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

She  drew  nearer  still  to  Herrick.  For  the  first  time 
he  touched  her,  slipping  his  hand  under  her  elbow. 

"We'll  soon  be  out  of  it." 

Then  he  began  to  talk  of  his  work  at  the  library. 
He  had  another  week  of  it  before  he  would  be  through. 

"And  I'll  be  glad  of  it  in  many  ways.  If  I  had  to 
go  on  much  longer  digging  that  dry  rot  out  of  books 
I'd  quit  my  job." 

"But  in  a  way  you  put  life  in  it,  rearrange  it,  make 
it  your  own." 

Herrick  laughed.  Like  the  echo  of  a  memory  Jean's 
repugnance  to  that  high,  thin  laugh  returned.  But  it 
seemed  trivial  now  that  she  really  knew  him. 

"There's  nothing  to  make  one's  own  in  the  whole 
business.  It  hasn't  any  permanence.  Not  a  scrap  of 
reality.  It  is  not  imy  work." 

Herrick  had  said  this  so  often  that  he  believed  it,  and 
his  voice  was  bitter  with  reproach.  "You  see  it's  not 
so  bad  so  long  as  you  don't  want  with  your  whole  soul 
to  do  something  else.  It's  the  knowing  and  not  being 
able  to  get  at  it  that's  hell." 

Jean  remembered  her  hatred  of  teaching  and  the 
misery  of  that  last  college  year.  And  she  had  only 
known  what  she  hated  and  not  at  all  what  she  wanted. 
What  was  it  that  this  man  wanted  so  much  that  the 
thought  of  it  changed  his  voice  and  made  him  seem 
suddenly  older?  She  longed  to  ask3  but  felt  that  he 
had  expected  her  to  understand  and  she  did  not  want 
to  fail  him.  The  next  moment  he  answered  it  himself. 

"Several  years  ago  I  mapped  out  a  novel  and  I've 
never  had  time  to  start  it.  I  can't  work  sneaking 
moments.  I'd  have  to  have  a  straight  sweep — and  so 
I  don't  start  it.  But  it  gnaws  there  just  the  same." 

"  'Gnaws.*  That's  exactly  what  things  do  when 
they  have  no  outlet." 

He  turned  quickly.     "Do  you  write,  too?" 

"No." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  37 

"But  there's  something  you  want  to  do.  You  couldn't 
understand  if  there  weren't." 

Jean  shook  her  head.  "It's  mostly  concerned  with 
not  wanting  to  do  things.  I  have  no  special  talent.'* 

"How  do  you  know?     Have  you  tried  anything?" 

The  irritation  at  her  modesty  was  flattering.  Jean 
flushed. 

"No.  But  I  have  no  faith  in  hidden  genius.  I'm 
twenty-four,  you  know,  and  it  would  have  showed  be 
fore  this." 

Herrick  felt  that  she  would  have  confessed  to  thirty- 
four  just  as  readily.  Her  frankness  repelled  him. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  I  don't  believe  that  we 
all  instinctively  know  what  we  want  to  do.  Most  of  us 
have  to  live  some  time  and  be  hurt  a  lot  before  we  find 
out  very  much  about  ourselves." 

"I  suppose  we  do,"  she  said  humbly. 

Herrick  thrilled  at  the  note  in  Jean's  voice.  But  he 
went  on  in  the  same  serious  way  as  if  he  were  being 
forced  almost  against  his  judgment  to  let  Jean  into 
his  confidence. 

"For  years  the  longing  to  get  things  down  on  paper 
haunted  me,  but  I  only  knew  that  I  was  miserable  and 
felt  stifled.  It  wasn't  till  I  came  to  the  city,  here,  that 
the  puzzle  suddenly  fitted  into  place."  He  stopped 
and  made  a  quick  sweeping  gesture  with  both  hands. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  great  to  get  all  this,  all  the  heat  and 
noise  and  mud  and  life,  to  get  the  whole  hot,  seething 
pain  on  paper!  God,  what  a  picture!" 

Something  came  into  Jean's  throat  and  hurt. 

"It  would  be  glorious."  She  felt  that  Herrick  had 
been  granted  a  fineness  of  spiritual  vision  she  could 
never  hope  for.  It  coarsened  her  that  she  had  seen 
only  the  dirt  and  squalor  of  the  vice,  while  the  man 
beside  her  had  grasped  something  beneath  that  linked 
it  up  with  reality  even  as  they  both  knew  it,  a  kind 
of  cosmic  unity  too  finely  toned  for  her  ears. 


38  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"You  must  do  it.  You  must.  Don't  let  an  impulse 
like  that  die.  It's  worth  any  sacrifice,  anything. 
Can't  you  really  get  at  it?" 

Herrick  looked  quickly  away.     "Perhaps,"  he  said 

shortly,  "some  day,  if  the  conditions  are  right,  I  may." 

He  did  not  take  Jean's   arm   again   and  in   a   few 

moments  they  came  to  an  old  loft  building  with  a  dark, 

yawning  entry. 

"Here  we  are."  They  turned  into  the  blackness, 
and  Jean  felt  it  close  about  them. 

"It's  a  rickety  old  hole,  but  Flop  would  suffocate 
any  place  else.  Perhaps  I'd  better  take  your  hand. 
The  stairs  aren't  all  they  might  be  and  you  don't 
know  where  the  broken  places  are." 

Jean  gave  him  her  hand  and  they  went  up  through 
the  blackness  together.  At  the  bottom  of  the  last  short 
flight  they  stopped. 

"Flop  usually  lights  the  lantern.  He  must  have  for 
gotten.  Just  wait  a  moment."  He  left  her  and  ran 
lightly  up  ahead.  Jean  could  not  see  him,  but  she 
could  feel  him  looming  above  her  on  the  landing,  and 
hear  the  low  rustle  of  his  clothes  as  he  felt  hurriedly 
through  them  for  a  match.  She  had  never  before  been 
so  alone  with  a  man. 

"Oh,  shucks!" 

The  word  dropped  on  the  tensity  of  Jean's  mood 
like  a  drop  of  ice  water.  She  wished  he  had  said  "damn." 
It  was  like  hearing  a  lion  say  "Tut!" 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  lead  you.  I  haven't  a  match 
and  there  are  none  on  the  ledge.  Flop  must  be  out." 

They  went  up  the  few  remaining  steps,  along  a 
narrow  hall  to  a  door  at  the  end  of  a  passage.  Her 
rick  turned  the  handle  and  stepped  back  to  let  Jean 
enter.  But  Jean  did  not  move. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  softly.    And  again :  "Oh." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  he  whispered  after  a  moment, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  39 

and  drew  her  gently  across  the  threshold  and  closed 
the  door. 

Every  cent  that  Flop  had  made  for  the  last  three 
years,  and  much  that  he  had  borrowed,  had  gone  to 
the  fitting  of  this  room.  The  walls  were  of  gray,  satin- 
smooth  eucalyptus.  Soft,  worn  rugs  lay  before  great 
couches  piled  with  pillows.  Along  the  west  wall,  wide 
windows  ran  the  length  of  the  room,  from  the  rough 
stone  fireplace  to  the  glass  door  that  opened  on  a  tiny 
iron  balcony.  All  the  windows  were  shaded  now  with 
heavy  green  curtains  run  on  silken  ropes.  The  after 
glow  of  a  scarlet  sunset  came  in  rose  and  pale  gold 
through  the  curtain  openings,  and  lay  in  pools  of  light 
on  the  dull  rugs. 

Herrick's  hand  took  Jean's  without  pressure,  so  that 
it  seemed  part  of  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  room,  and 
they  crossed  to  the  window.  The  hills  beyond  the  Bay 
etched  themselves  in  faint  purple  and  amethyst  on 
the  paling  sky.  They  stood  silent,  looking  out  across 
the  low  roofs,  to  the  Bay,  with  its  wall  of  hills  and  the 
white  ferryboats  moving  majestically  in  the  dignity 
of  distance. 

At  last  Jean  turned  back  to  the  room. 

"One  could  do  great  things  here,"  she  said  slowly 
as  if  thinking  aloud,  unconscious  of  Herrick's  pres 
ence. 

"Yes.  One  could  do  great  things,  if  one  were  happy." 

The  emphasis  drew  her  attention  and  she  looked  at 
him. 

"Isn't  he  happy?  It  doesn't  seem  possible,  quite,  to 
live  in  a  room  like  this  and  not  be  happy." 

"Flop?  I  don't  know.  As  happy  or  unhappy  as 
every  one  else,  I  suppose." 

Herrick's  eyes  sought  the  Bay  again.  She  was  im 
possible  as  a  grown  woman.  She  was  more  like  a  boy, 
with  her  annoying  way  of  looking  straight  into  his  eyes, 
and  her  silly,  impersonal  interpretations.  No  doubt 


40  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

she  thought  that  all  Flop  needed  was  a  room  like  this, 
and  twenty-four  hours  a  day,  to  paint  masterpieces. 
And  Herrick  thought  of  all  the  love  and  hate,  the  reck 
less  joy  and  pain  that  had  been  born  and  killed  among 
the  soft  rugs  and  old  tapestries  and  small,  pure 
marbles. 

"I  don't  know  that  it  matters  so  much,  after  all, 
whether  we  are  happy  or  not,  as  long  as  we  are 
alive." 

Jean  spoke  with  difficulty,  for  Herrick's  sudden 
turning  away  made  her  feel  that  she  had  really  known 
him  only  two  weeks,  and  knew  nothing  whatever  of  his 
life.  In  the  shadow  of  the  green  curtains,  his  face 
looked  whiter  and  the  soft  curve  of  his  lips  hard,  as 
if  he  were  remembering  something  that  hurt  very  much. 
A  tremendous  necessity  to  comfort  him  swept  Jean  into 
speech,  to  make  him  see  that  nothing  mattered  except 
being  alive  as  he  must  be,  not  hampered  and  swaddled 
with  the  crowding  of  uncongenial  personalities.  She 
contrasted  Herrick  with  his  ability  and  definite  ambi 
tion  and  friends,  with  the  long,  dead  evenings  and  the 
killing  Sundays  with  Tom  and  Elsie  and  her  mother. 

"  'To  see  Life  clearly  and  see  it  whole,'  "  quoted 
Jean,  and  her  voice  shook  slightly  with  the  force  of  her 
own  conviction. 

The  blood  rushed  into  Franklin  Herrick's  eyes,  and 
he  shook  his  head  as  if  to  clear  them  from  the  mist. 
Again  he  felt  that  Jean  was  eluding  him,  slipping  away 
from  the  niche  in  which  he  had  just  placed  her.  But 
this  time  she  was  flitting  ahead  of  him,  tantalizing  in 
her  promised  capacity  to  feel.  He  wanted  to  put  his 
hands  on  her  strong  shoulders  and  force  something 
into  those  clear  gray  eyes,  filled  now  with  confusion  at 
her  own  unusual  enthusiasm. 

"We'll  straighten  out  all  the  philosophy  of  the 
world  some  other  night,"  he  said  abruptly.  "But  now 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  41 

I  want  to  show  you  Flop's  latest.  And,  whether  he's 
happy  or  not,  it's  great  stuff." 

Herrick  brought  the  canvas  from  the  easel,  propped 
it  on  a  table  and  lit  a  small  bronze  sconce,  which  he 
held  so  that  the  light  fell  on  the  picture  and  on  Jean's 
head. 

From  the  shadow  of  a  dusky,  smudged  wood,  the 
nude  figure  of  a  woman  stood  out  with  startling  white 
ness.  At  her  feet  a  little  brook  ran  over  white 
pebbles.  There  was  a  feeling  of  moonlight  among  the 
trees,  as  if  somewhere  a  full  moon  were  shining  in  the 
warm  night.  But  the  little  brook,  deep  in  the  heart 
of  the  wood,  was  cold,  and  the  woman  longed  and  at 
the  same  time  dreaded  to  enter  it.  The  warm  black 
ness  of  the  trees  held  her,  like  the  embrace  of  an  un 
seen  lover.  But  the  cool  voice  of  the  brook  called 
steadily  and  one  felt  sure  that  in  the  end  she  would  go. 
She  was  bent  a  little  forward  as  if  listening  to  the 
brook,  so  that  the  curves  of  her  slim  body,  the  small, 
white  breasts,  partly  veiled  in  the  red-gold  hair  that 
fell  about  her  shoulders,  leaned  into  the  darkness. 

"She's  alive,"  Herrick  whispered,  and  going  to  the 
canvas  passed  his  hand  lightly  from  the  red-gold  hair 
to  the  small,  white  feet  deep  in  the  damp  grass. 

The  blood  flooded  Jean's  face.  Instantly  Herrick 
was  angry  with  himself,  but  the  call  had  been  too 
strong.  He  covered  his  anger  with  surprise  as  he 
looked  quietly  at  Jean. 

"Come.  I  want  to  show  you  the  rest  of  the  things, 
too." 

Holding  the  sconce  high,  he  moved  about  the  room, 
pointing  out  his  favorites  among  Flop's  work. 

Jean  followed,  making  flat  comments  on  the  things 
he  showed  her.  She  wanted  desperately  to  go  back  to 
the  first  picture,  and  discuss  it  in  a  rational  manner, 
for  there  was  nothing  in  it  to  shock  or  repel.  It  was 
too  perfect  for  that.  Again  she  felt  that  she  had  been 


42  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

crude  and  childish,  just  as  she  had  been  about  the 
painted  women  and  the  sordid  ugliness  of  The  Coast, 
and  that  she  had  fallen  short  of  Herrick's  estimate  and 
disappointed  him.  She  wanted  to  say  something,  but 
did  not  know  in  what  words  to  open  the  subject  nor 
how  to  make  Herrick  understand  without.  Slowly  they 
made  the  rounds  of  the  studio  and  came  again  to  the 
glass  door  opening  on  the  balcony.  Herrick  put  out  the 
light. 

"It's  only  a  quarter  to  and  it  won't  take  five  minutes 
to  get  there.  Shall  we  stay  here  or  go  and  wait  for 
the  rest  in  the  restaurant  ?" 

"I'd  rather  wait  here." 

Jean  hoped  that  some  opportunity  would  offer  to 
correct  what  must  be  Herrick's  impression  of  her,  but 
none  came.  Herrick  sat  silent. 

As  she  rested  against  the  pile  of  cushions  Her 
rick  had  arranged,  and  watched  the  quick  western 
twilight  blot  the  world  to  night,  Jean  felt  as  if  for 
the  twenty-four  years  of  her  life  she  must  have  been 
fast  asleep.  All  about  her  men  and  women  had  been 
loving  and  hating  and  misunderstanding  and  hurting 
each  other,  and  she  had  been  studying  books  like  a 
child.  She  had  used  up  much  energy  and  bitterness 
longing  for  the  moment  when  she  would  get  out  into 
life  and  earn  her  own  living,  make  one  of  the  army  that 
fought  its  way  back  and  forth  each  morning  and  night 
on  the  boats.  And  all  the  time  the  real  thing  was  not 
that  at  all.  The  real  thing  was  human  relationship, 
the  relations  between  men,  and  between  women,  and 
between  women  and  men.  There  were  thousands  of 
sensations  and  cross  currents  and  impressions.  There 
was  ambition,  not  vague  ambition  like  hers,  but  a 
focused  force  like  Freeman's  and  Harcourt's  and  Her 
rick's.  There  was  struggle  and  disappointment  and 
the  pain  that  so  evidently  Herrick  had  known,  and 
Flop  too,  not  the  petty  annoyance  of  Elsie's  whining, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  43 

but  sweeping  pain  that  left  one  bigger.  There  was 
loneliness  even  in  a  glorious  room  like  this  and  pleasant 
interludes  of  chance  meetings  with  kindred  souls. 

The  wonderful  romance  of  friendship  gripped  Jean. 
From  the  ends  of  the  earth  two  people,  of  different 
tradition,  it  might  be  of  different  race,  met  accidentally 
and  their  lives  forever  after  were  different.  From  the 
silent  dark  streets  below,  all  the  personalities  of  all 
the  thousands  she  had  never  seen,  came  close  and 
touched  her,  so  that  she  felt  that  in  some  hidden  way 
she  was  being  influenced  by  every  one  of  them.  There 
was  nothing  in  life  insignificant,  nothing  unimportant, 
nothing  unrelated  to  the  whole. 

Every  one  was  bound  to  every  one  else  by  achieve 
ment  and  encouragement  and  understanding.  Each 
of  these  was  a  definite  thing,  like  a  thread,  made  up  of 
millions  of  minute  strands,  passing  glances,  chance 
handclasps,  too  fine  to  be  caught  and  held  in  words  and 
yet  each  so  strong  that  it  could  bear  the  weight  of 
many  disappointments. 

And  there  was  the  web  of  the  whole  with  its  radiating 
threads  of  the  bigger  social  relationships,  made  from 
these  fine,  thin  filaments  of  everyday  occurrences. 

She  thought  of  herself  and  of  Pat,  of  Tom  and 
Elsie  and  her  mother,  each  weaving  his  own  pattern. 
Pat  wove  carelessly  with  whatever  thread  came  to 
hand,  singing  as  she  wove,  while  Tom  and  Elsie  fought 
over  the  threads  that  broke  under  their  ceaseless 
nagging  and  left  the  pattern  torn  and  frayed.  And 
Martha,  so  sharply  did  the  figure  of  a  weaver  present 
itself  to  Jean,  that  she  saw  as  clearly  as  if  her  mother 
had  been  there,  the  patient  figure  sitting  before  its 
loom,  weaving  only  the  dark  gray  threads,  gently 
thrusting  aside  with  small,  tired  hands  the  golds  and 
reds.  And  so  vital  did  the  need  come  to  Jean  of  choos 
ing  the  best  threads,  weaving  the  most  glorious  pattern 


44  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

she  could,  that  she  clenched  her  hands  and  whispered 
aloud : 

"I  will  do  it.    I  will." 

"Do  what?"  Her  rick  bent  to  her  and  took  both 
hands  in  his. 

Jean  laughed.     "Did  I  really  say  it  aloud?" 

"You  certainly  did,  whatever  it  was  that  you  mil. 
What  is  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  put  it  into  words.  It  was  just 
the  feel  of  being  up  here  above  all  those  dark  streets 
and — and " 

"  'And  all  about  with  wings  the  darkness  stirred.' 
Was  that  it?" 

"I  expect  it  was." 

Her  rick  jumped  to  his  feet  and  swung  her  to  the 
floor  beside  him. 

"My,  but  you're  strong!" 

They  stood  smiling  for  a  moment.  Then  he  moved 
to  the  door. 

"We'll  be  late  after  all.  But  I  guess  I  was  dream 
ing  too." 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THROUGH  the  crowd  waiting  for  tables,  Herrick 
pushed  his  way  and  Jean  followed  closely. 
Greasy  waiters  rushed  about  with  great  platters  of 
spaghetti,  increasing  the  noise  and  confusion  by  their 
violent  gestures  and  frantic  efforts  to  serve  every  one 
at  once.  As  Jean  and  Herrick  made  their  way  among 
the  small  tables  that  took  up  three-quarters  of  the 
long  room,  people  looked  at  them  and  made  comments 
which  came  to  Jean  in  broken  sentences  of  no  mean 
ing.  Suddenly  the  air  of  the  Marseillaise  rose  above 
the  din.  Instantly  the  crowd  waiting  about  the  door 
pushed  forward,  and  those  already  seated  got  on  chairs 
and  craned  their  necks  toward  the  end  of  the  room. 

Herrick  bent  to  Jean.  "Don't  be  frightened.  We're 
really  not  a  bit  dangerous." 

Jean  did  not  have  time  to  answer  before  they  passed 
through  the  outer  rim  of  the  crowd  and  came  into  a 
cleared  space  before  a  long  table,  from  which  the 
deafening  din  arose.  Mounted  on  a  chair,  a  fat  man, 
in  a  khaki  hunting  suit  and  an  enormous  Windsor  tie  of 
peacock  blue  satin,  was  bellowing  a  song  set  to  the 
tune  of  the  Marseillaise.  The  burden  of  the  song  was, 
"Bring  on  the  Food!  Bring  on  the  Food!"  A  girl 
in  a  dull  green  crepe  dress  that  hung  from  the  shoulders 
like  a  kimono,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  table  and 
carried  the  air  high  above  the  rest  in  a  shrill  soprano. 
The  men  and  women  about  the  table  beat  time  with 
forks  and  spoons. 

As  Herrick  and  Jean  came  forward  the  man  in 

45 


46  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

khaki  saw  them,  stopped,  appraised  Jean  in  a  glance, 
and  silenced  his  chorus  with  a  wave  of  his  fat  hand. 

"I  hereby  fine  him,  Franklin  Herrick,  twenty-five 
cents  for  tardiness,  said  fine  to  be  paid  in  United  States 
silver  coin,  not  later  than  ten  o'clock  this  evening,  and 
to  be  used  for  the  sole  purpose  of  aiding  the  complete 
debauch  of  The  Bunch." 

He  jumped  down  and  came  forward  with  both  hands 
outstretched  in  generous  welcome.  He  appropriated 
Jean,  separated  her  from  Herrick  and  swept  her  into 
the  empty  chair  between  a  pudgy  woman  in  a  black 
skirt  and  soiled  white  waist,  and  a  heavy-browed  young 
man  who  did  not  move  or  glance  at  Jean  as  she  took 
the  place.  With  a  wave  that  included  the  entire  table, 
Flop  announced: 

"Jean,  Jean  Norris,  and  on  with  the  dance!"  He 
seemed  to  find  this  funny,  and  laughed  immoderately. 
A  tall,  very  thin  man  next  to  the  pudgy  woman  bent' 
forward,  leered  at  Jean  for  a  second  in  maudlin  earn 
estness,  and  then  yelled: 

"We  want  Jean !    We  want  Jean !" 

The  table  took  it  up,  and  all  down  the  length, 
glasses  were  raised  and  they  drank  to  Jean  in  the  sour, 
red  wine.  Across  the  table,  from  what  was  evidently 
his  accustomed  place  next  to  the  girl  in  the  green  crepe, 
Herrick  smiled  reassuringly.  The  girl  had  come  down 
from  the  table  at  Flop's  introduction  of  Jean  and  sat 
with  her  elbows  on  the  cloth  and  her  chin  in  her  palms, 
staring  at  Jean,  with  no  acknowledgment  of  the  lat- 
ter's  existence  in  her  eyes.  Now  that  she  looked  at 
her  more  closely,  Jean  saw  that  the  woman  was  not 
really  young,  only  her  smallness  made  her  seem  so. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  netted  with  fine  wrinkles  and  the 
skin  of  her  hands  was  faintly  withered.  The  youngest 
thing  about  her  was  her  neck,  beautifully  modeled,  and 
her  black  hair  which  was  thin  but  wavy.  Jean  was  just 
wondering  whether  the  woman  was  expressing  a  genuine 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  47 

mood,  or  resenting  a  stranger,  when  the  pudgy  woman 
said  in  a  reassuring  tone: 

"You  mustn't  be  afraid  of  us.  We  say  and  do  any 
thing  that  pleases  us,  but  really  we're  not  the  least  bit 
dangerous." 

"But  I'm  not.  Not  the  least  bit.  Do  I  look  so — so 
green,  that  I  need  protection?"  Jean  smiled,  but  this 
insistence  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  annoyed 
her. 

The  woman  thrust  her  face  close  to  Jean's  and 
scrutinized  her  carefully.  "An  azalea!  That's  it,  an 
azalea!  Listen,  listen,  all  ye  present,  I've  got  it. 
Azalea,  that's  her  Bunch  name." 

"Azalea!  Azalea!"  Above  the  noise,  Flop's  bass 
bellowed  and  he  beat  the  table  in  a  frenzy  of  approval, 
as  if  he  could  not  have  endured  another  moment  with 
out  knowing  the  right  name  for  Jean.  Through  the 
uproar,  Herrick's  smile  reached  like  a  cool  touch. 
They  drank  Jean's  baptism  in  the  sour,  red  wine  and 
the  next  moment  the  interrupted  arguments  were  go 
ing  on  more  violently  than  before.  The  name  was 
adopted  with  voracious  enthusiasm  and  complete  in 
difference. 

Rather  exhausted  by  the  suddenness  of  the  proceed 
ing,  Jean  drew  back  and  tried  to  separate  the  mass 
before  her  into  its  elements.  She  wondered  which  were 
Harcourt  and  Tolletson  and  whether  they  had  been 
"baptized"  in  wine.  She  scanned  the  faces  along  the 
opposite  side,  where  Herrick  was  now  listening  with  a 
frown  to  the  girl  in  green ;  and  then,  as  no  one  claimed 
her  attention,  leaned  a  little  forward.  There  was  a 
heavy-set  young  man  with  a  swarthy  skin,  who  talked 
with  an  Oxford  accent  and  made  Jewish  gestures:  a 
middle-aged  man,  with  sleek  hair  and  a  Van  Dyke, 
which  he  was  continually  stroking  with  a  very  white 
hand.  He  seemed  to  carry  on  his  side  of  the  argument 
with  the  swarthy  person,  in  a  series  of  grunts  and 


48  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

inner  explosions,  as  if  his  opinions  were  so  violent  that 
they  erupted  before  he  could  bind  them  in  words. 
Inhere  was  also  a  woman  with  gray  hair  framing  a 
young  face  and  sad,  kind  brown  eyes.  She  seemed 
interested,  but  said  little,  and  Jean  liked  her.  And 
there  was  a  pale,  tall  girl,  with  black  eyes  and  hair, 
who  smoked  cigarettes  faster  than  the  two  men 
beside  her  could  roll  them,  and  who  stared  in  smolder 
ing  hate  at  these  men  when  she  had  to  wait,  as  if  they 
had  mortally  injured  her.  Jean  laughed  quietly  to  her 
self,  but  instantly  the  woman  beside  her  turned. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  'Azalea'  was  right.  You  sound 
exactly  like  a  dove  when  you  do  that,  a  deep-breasted, 
soft,  blue  dove — Paloma.  I  believe  that's  it!  I 
say " 

"Oh,  no,  please  don't.  I  like  the  other  one  better. 
But  I  do  want  to  know  something.  Which  is  Mr.  Har- 
court  and  which  is  Mr.  Tolletson?" 

"Harcourt  and  Tolletson?  My  dear,  they  never 
come,  that  is,  hardly  ever.  Harcourt  lives  in  London 
and  Tolletson  spends  most  of  his  time  in  Paris.  Math- 
ews  lives  in  bourgeoise  respectability  in  the  country  with 
a  legal  wife  and  baby.  They  were  Bunchers  somewhere 
in  the  Dark  Ages.  Some  of  us  wouldn't  know  them  if 
we  met  them  on  the  street,  only  down  underneath,  you 
know,  we're  kind  of  proud  of  them,  and  keep  their 
names  alive.  Then,  they  have  been  known  to  come  within 
the  memory  of  man.  Makes  'em  feel  more  successful  to 
measure  the  distance  they've  got  away,  I  suppose." 

"Oh !"  Jean  felt  as  if  the  woman  had  stripped  some 
thing  from  her  rudely,  but  that  she  must  cover  this 
rudeness  from  some  deeper  need  to  herself.  After  all, 
Herrick  had  not  promised  that  these  men  would  be 
there.  She  had  jumped  to  that  conclusion  herself. 

"But  the  rest  of  us  do  something  every  now  and 
then,  in  a  small  way,"  the  other  went  on,  with  an  under 
standing  glint  in  her  eyes  that  made  Jean  flush.  "Oh, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  49 

never  mind,  it  wasn't  rude,  not  a  bit.  Most  every  one 
who  comes  first,  expects  to  see  them,  and  it's  rather 
funny  watching  the  efforts  not  to  ask  point  blank. 
Not  many  are  as  frank  as  you.  Do  you  see  that  black 
and  white  thing,  smoking  like  a  chimney,  and  looking 
as  lively  as  a  mummy?  That's  The  Tiger — mad  about 
Flop  for  the  last  six  weeks,  frightful  length  of  time  for 
either  of  them.  He's  disciplining  her  with  Magnolia, 
that  big,  sleepy  porpoise  he's  kissing.  The  Tiger  and 
Magnolia  write  poetry,  damned  good,  too,  some  of  it, 
but  they  never  bother  printing  it.  Magnolia'd  like  to, 
but  it's  the  only  trick  The  Tiger's  got — pretending 
she  doesn't  care  for  money  or  fame,  and  'Nolia  has  to 
live  up  to  the  standard.  The  human  skeleton  next  to 
me's  Vicky  Sergeant;  he  has  no  Bunch  name  because 
we  couldn't  find  a  fruit  or  animal  he  looked  like.  That 
girl  in  green  next  to  Franklin  is  Vicky's  wife.  We  call 
her  The  Kitten — for  various  reasons.  And  of  course 
you  know  Franklin's  Boy  Blue." 

"Why  Boy  Blue?" 

The  woman  laughed.  "Don't  ask  me.  Ask  The 
Kitten.  She  named  him  long  ago.  I  think  it  has  some 
thing  to  do  with  always  losing  sheep." 

At  this  moment,  the  now  almost  drunken  Vicky 
claimed  her  and  Jean  looked  up,  to  find  The  Kitten's 
eyes  just  turning  away,  and  a  scowl  of  anger  on  Her- 
rick's  face.  The  fingers  crumbling  his  bread  tightened 
and  then  he  said  something  to  The  Kitten  that  made 
her  drop  the  match,  with  which  she  was  about  to  light 
her  cigarette,  and  stare  at  him.  After  a  moment  she 
began  to  laugh  as  if  the  full  force  of  the  thing  had 
come  to  her  gradually.  With  a  shrug,  Herrick  left 
his  place  and  wedged  a  chair  between  Jean  and  the 
dumpy  woman. 

"I'm  afraid  we  didn't  get  a  very  good  night.  They're 
all  rather  keyed  up.  They  are  sometimes." 

The  impersonal   criticism   in  his   voice   linked   him 


50  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

with  the  charter  members  who  never  came,  separated 
him  from  The  Kitten  and  the  noisy  enthusiasm  that 
glittered  like  veneer  over  what  Jean  instinctively  felt 
was  real  boredom  and  disillusion.  It  drew  her  to  him 
and  she  said  in  a  low  tone: 

"Who's  The  Kitten?" 

He  hesitated,  and  then  answered  in  the  same  low 
tone: 

"An  unhappy  woman  with  claws  that  tear  herself 
and  every  one  else  who  gets  too  near,  and  she's  in  the 
devil  of  a  mood  to-night.  Poor  Kitten,  she  will  never 
learn." 

Jean  looked  across  the  table  with  more  pity  in  her 
eyes  than  she  realized,  until  The  Kitten's  laughter 
ceased  suddenly,  and  leaning  to  Jean,  she  said: 

"Don't  be  too  sweet  to  Boy  Blue,  Azalea.  He  can't 
stand  azaleas.  I  saw  him  get  disgustingly  drunk  once, 
just  because  the  room  was  hot  and  there  was  a  big 
bunch  of  azaleas  in  it.  Don't  you  remember,  Boy?" 

"I  can't  say  that  I  do,  Kitten,"  Franklin  answered 
quietly.  "But  you  remember  such  a  lot  of  things." 

"Dozens,  Boy,  dozens." 

Herrick  refused  to  continue  the  conversation  and, 
with  a  remark  that  included  Jean,  entered  the  dis 
cussion  going  on  at  the  end  of  the  table.  While  she 
tried  to  catch  the  drift  of  the  talk,  Jean  felt  The 
Kitten's  eyes  on  her  and  knew  that  the  woman  saw 
her  effort  to  pretend  unconsciousness  of  them.  This 
lasted  only  a  few  moments,  for,  with  an  elaborate  yawn, 
The  Kitten  left  the  table.  No  one  made  any  comment  on 
her  going  and  Vicky  was  lost  in  assumed  jealousy  of 
the  dumpy  woman  who  was  flirting  clumsily  with  Flop. 

The  argument  was  a  technical  one  and  soon  beyond 
Jean's  depth,  for  she  knew  nothing  at  all  of  painting 
or  artists.  But  from  time  to  time  Herrick  appealed  to 
her  on  a  point  about  which  the  rankest  layman  would 
have  an  opinion,  so  that  Jean  felt  in  him  a  keener 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  51 

social  sense  and  greater  natural  kindliness  than  any 
of  the  others  seemed  to  possess. 

When  the  argument  became  too  intricate  for  even 
Herrick  to  include  her,  she  leaned  back,  now  much 
more  at  ease,  and  sensing  a  faint,  possible  charm, 
which  had  at  first  been  quite  lost  under  the  gaucherie 
of  manner. 

The  Outlanders,  as  The  Bunch  called  the  rest  of  the 
world,  had  thinned  a  little,  but  there  were  still  many 
tables  filled  with  starers  toward  the  big  table  in  the 
center.  It  was  evidently  the  attraction  of  this  rather 
dirty  restaurant,  and  Jean  judged  that  the  proprietor 
would  rather  feed  The  Bunch  for  nothing  than  have 
them  transfer  their  patronage.  And  for  this  freedom, 
this  effortful  emancipation  from  the  social  code  that 
passed  as  originality  and  genius,  he  charged  The  Out- 
landers  high.  This  too  they  appreciated.  It  gave 
value  to  the  thing  they  bought. 

"After  all,"  Jean  decided,  "I  suppose  I  do  look  like 
a  baby  let  out  alone  without  its  nurse.  I've  never  met 
any  people  worth  while  knowing  in  my  life,  or  any  one 
out  of  the  beaten  track.  And  because  these  tie  their 
neckties  across  instead  of  down  and  make  a  lot  of  noise, 
I  feel  superior.  I've  certainly  never  painted  a  picture 
or  written  a  poem  and  I  didn't  know  there  was  any 
thing  the  matter  with  Maeterlinck  at  all.  Jean  Nor- 
ris,  you're  a  cocky  fool." 

She  was  recalled  from  this  philosophizing  by  Her- 
rick's  touch  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Dreaming  again?"  His  voice  was  wistful,  not  this 
time  as  if  he  wished  to  share  her  dreams,  but  as  if  he 
envied  her  the  power  to  dream.  Jean  thought  that  his 
eyes  were  very  tired  and  his  face  rather  pale,  as  she 
looked  up.  "Well?"  he  smiled  down  at  her.  "Were  you 
really  so  far  away?  Come  back,  won't  you,  please?" 

It  was  a  sincere  request,  and  as  Jean  followed  to 
the  street,  she  felt  that  Herrick  was  often  alone  among 


52  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

these  people  and  she  thought  she  understood  now  why 
he  had  not  tried  to  do  the  novel. 

On  the  sidewalk  Flop  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
group  debating  what  to  do  with  the  rest  of  the  night. 
When  Herri ck  and  Jean  joined,  Flop  turned  to  her 
with  his  manner  of  having  just  been  struck  by  an 
illuminating  thought. 

"We'll  leave  it  to  Azalea.  Which  would  you  rather 
do,  go  down  to  Ramon's  and  drink  mescal,  he's  just 
got  some  from  Mexico,  or  do  the  Coast?  There's  a 
dancer  at  Frank's  worth  seeing." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  either.  The  next  boat  won't 
get  me  home  till  after  one,  as  it  is." 

"Nonsense.  Nobody  ever  goes  home  while  there's 
anything  else  to  do.  'We  won't  go  home  till  morn 
ing!'" 

The  others  took  it  up,  and  the  silence  of  the  empty 
street  echoed  to  the  old  song.  Jean  wondered  whether 
Flop  was  always  singing  his  wants  like  this,  and  glanced 
at  Herrick. 

"Let's  beat  it,  if  you  really  want  to,"  he  whispered, 
and  almost  before  she  knew  it,  they  had  turned  down 
a  side  street.  For  a  block  the  voices  of  The  Bunch 
followed.  They  did  not  know  that  Jean  and  Herrick 
had  slipped  away. 

"If  there's  anything  more  dull  than  drinking  mescal, 
it's  going  to  Frank's.  I  don't  see  what  on  earth  Flop 
finds  in  it." 

Jean  liked  his  annoyance.  Again  she  felt  that  they 
were  linked  in  understanding  against  the  others.  She 
had  meant  to  ask  him  about  Harcourt  and  Mathews, 
but  now  it  seemed  unnecessary. 

They  walked  in  almost  total  silence  through  the  dark 
streets  lined  with  closed  warehouses  that  sent  out  a 
mingled  odor  of  fruits  and  vegetables  exotic  to 
Jean  in  its  newness.  Often  the  black  bulk  of  empty 
crates  forced  them  into  the  cobble  paved  road-bed, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  53 

thick  with  dust  and  fruit  rinds  and  withered  greens. 
Once,  in  common  consent  they  stopped  to  listen  to  hun 
dreds  of  crated  pigeons,  cooing  softly  behind  closed 
doors. 

"You  are  like  a  dove.  She  was  right  for  once.  A 
big,  calm  dove,"  he  said,  and  they  went  on  silent  as 
before. 

On  the  boat  they  chose  the  forward  deck  and  watched 
the  dark  hills  come  closer.  The  great  paddle-wheel 
churned  a  rhythm  to  Jean's  thoughts,  pictures  of  the 
day,  from  the  time  she  had  met  Herrick  and  had 
walked  through  the  crowded  streets,  to  the  present 
cool  emptiness  of  the  upper  deck  with  the  night  wind 
touching  her  face  and  thousands  of  stars  above.  To 
Jean  it  had  been  the  fullest  day  she  had  ever  lived. 

Gently  Herrick's  hand  claimed  hers  and  she  did 
not  withdraw  it.  The  contact  seemed  only  a  finer 
communication,  a  surer  speech  than  the  clumsiness  of 
words. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

SOON  after  the  first  dinner  with  The  Bunch,  Herrick 
finished  the  series  of  articles  and  no  longer  came  to 
the  library.  But  often  Jean  found  him  waiting  at  the 
closing  hour  and  they  walked  to  the  Ferry.  Several 
times  they  had  lunch  in  a  little  Mexican  restaurant  with 
a  sanded  floor  and  strings  of  red  peppers  hanging  like 
stalactites  from  the  ceiling.  Jean  always  came  from 
this  place  with  the  feeling  of  having  been  to  another 
world  and  touched  another  life.  And  there  was  always 
the  feeling  of  having  shared  this  happy  strangeness 
with  Herrick. 

On  Sundays,  sometimes  Herrick  called  at  the  house 
for  her,  and  sometimes  she  met  him  at  the  Ferry,  and 
they  went  to  Flop's.  Martha  made  no  comment,  but 
Jean  knew  that  after  she  had  left  the  house,  her  mother 
cried,  and  because  she  never  mentioned  Herrick,  Jean 
knew  that  Martha  disliked  him.  In  the  studio  Jean 
made  a  great  effort  to  enter  the  spirit,  for  although 
she  felt  more  and  more  strongly  that  Herrick,  too. 
was  bored,  she  clung  to  the  belief  that  there  must  be 
some  charm  her  own  narrow  training  could  not  dis 
cover. 

There  was  always  the  same  enthusiasm  about  the 
same  things.  Whenever  interest  flagged  they  wound 
it  up  with  the  thin,  red  wine  and  with  more  and  more 
cigarettes  which  they  threw  away  partially  smoked. 
Men  and  women  made  open  love  to  each  other  and  there 
was  much  kissing  and  imitation  jealousy.  Their  in 
satiable  need  to  be  different  had  become  a  scourge, 
which  drove  them  along  the  road  of  personal  eccentric- 

54 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  55 

ity.  In  the  more  or  less  worthy  rebellion  of  their  youth 
they  had  adopted  Windsor  ties  and  become  Bohemians 
for  life. 

Through  the  remaining  winter  and  early  spring,  Jean 
and  Herrick  continued  to  go  less  and  less  often,  and 
in  April  stopped  altogether.  Now,  on  Sundays,  they 
took  long  walks  over  the  hills.  They  built  drift-wood 
fires  in  lonely  coves  and  raced  like  children  across  the 
dunes.  And  always,  Jean  led  the  talk  to  Herrick's 
novel  and  the  things  he  would  write,  so  that  these 
vague  dreams  took  form  between  them.  It  was  as  if 
Jean,  reaching  down  among  the  qualities  he  believed 
he  had  thrown  away,  found  a  small,  discarded  jewel. 
Together  they  polished  it. 

Jean's  attitude  hurt  and  flattered  Herrick  and  the 
combination  was  fast  binding  him  against  his  will. 
Remembering  the  hours  he  was  alone  with  Jean  on 
empty  beaches  and  among  silent  trees,  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  never  kissed  her  made  him  hot  with  shame. 
Away  from  her,  he  marveled  at  his  own  control.  But 
with  her,  a  genuine  peace  for  the  most  part  held  him, 
so  that  the  control  was  not  so  great  as  it  afterward 
appeared.  In  some  strange  way  she  herself  stilled  the 
storm  she  raised. 

It  was  June,  but  a  high  fog  had  covered  the  sky  all 
day.  They  had  been  walking  since  morning  and  now, 
in  the  late  afternoon,  came  out  through  the  trail  that 
wound  between  the  hills  to  the  cliffs  that  edged  the 
sea.  Up  from  below  long  white  arms,  tore  at  the 
cliffs,  dropped,  reached  higher  in  new  effort.  While, 
farther  out,  the  inexhaustible  army  of  waves  rushed 
in,  line  after  line,  flung  themselves  on  the  cliffs,  sank 
back,  rushed  in  again.  Over  it  all  the  gray  sky 
shut  as  if  to  keep  the  din  from  the  ears  of  God.  The 
world  was  strangely  alone,  shut  in  by  itself,  like  a 
madman  locked  in  his  cell.  Driven  from  infinity,  rush- 


56  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

ing  on  to  infinity,  the  wind  tore  by  them  on  its  cease 
less  quest. 

Herrick  took  her  hand  and  they  began  to  run  to  a 
little  beach  wedged  between  the  cliffs.  As  they  ran 
Jean  was  filled  with  a  deep  sureness,  as  if  she  could 
run  so  forever,  swifter  and  swifter,  never  halting  or 
stumbling,  borne  up  by  a  strength  within;  a  strength 
that  was  beating  out  against  the  whole  surface  of  her 
body,  in  an  effort  to  join  the  main  current  of  all  life, 
that  touched  her  on  every  side. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  Jean  dropped  to  the  floor 
of  the  cove,  and  for  a  moment  Herrick  stood  above 
her.  Deliberately  he  enjoyed  the  feeling  of  physical 
power  it  gave  him  to  stand  so,  to  feel  his  greater 
strength,  to  know  that  in  spite  of  her  superb  body  he 
could  bend,  lift  and  throw  this  woman  into  the  sea. 
He  could  see  her  breast  rise  and  fall  under  the  thin 
waist,  and  the  base  of  her  throat  throb  with  the  breath 
that  still  came  quickly  after  their  swift  run.  For  a 
moment,  all  the  artist  in  Herrick  rose  in  appreciation 
of  the  picture,  the  unity  that  bound  Jean's  body,  the 
silent  power  of  the  gray  cliffs  yielding  so  little  to  the 
centuries  of  rage  tearing  at  them,  to  the  eternal,  ever- 
changing  sameness  of  the  sea.  There  was  much  o> 
them  in  Jean,  so  that,  as  he  looked,  he  felt  tired  anC 
worn.  He  went  and  sat  down  a  little  behind  her,  and 
drawing  his  knees  to  his  chin,  circled  them  with  his 
arms. 

It  was  almost  eighteen  months  since  he  had  first 
brought  The  Kitten  here.  They  had  raced  down  the 
hill  too,  but  at  the  foot  he  had  swung  her  to  the  circle 
of  his  arms  and  kissed  her  madly.  She  had  returned  his 
kisses,  until,  both  a  little  exhausted,  they  lay  on  the 
sand,  his  head  in  her  lap,  and  her  fingers  had  wandered 
in  his  hair,  coming,  every  few  minutes,  to  rest  hotly  on 
his  lips. 

Herrick  looked   at  Jean  and  wondered.      She  had 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  57 

never  kissed  a  man  as  The  Kitten  had  kissed  him. 
Would  she  ever?  What  was  she  thinking  of,  smiling 
out  over  the  gray  sea?  In  that  passionate,  throbbing 
emptiness  she  seemed  as  unconscious  of  him  as  if  he 
were  one  of  the  gray  cliffs.  She  was  as  far  away  and 
impersonal  as  the  wind  sweeping  indifferently  over  the 
friendly  little  grasses. 

In  obedience  to  his  unspoken  wish,  Jean  turned. 

"It's  the  sounds,"  she  said,  as  if  Herrick  must  have 
been  following  her  thoughts.  "If  there  weren't  any 
sounds  in  Nature,  pagans  would  never  have  invented 
a  God.  It's  so  impossible  to  imagine  a  silent  Force 
creating  a  world  where  the  wind  shrieks  and  the  sea 
roars  and  you  can  almost  hear  the  earth  breathe.  It 
seems  as  if  there  must  be  a  personal  god  somewhere, 
a  huge,  powerful  man  who  needs  these  voices  to  talk 
with." 

She  had  been  thinking  about  God ! 

Herrick,  without  answering,  drew  farther  back  into 
the  cove.  He  turned  from  Jean  to  the  open  gray- 
ness,  and  a  terror  of  its  immensity  forced  through  every 
effort  to  keep  it  out.  In  the  whole  world  there  was 
nothing  but  loneliness,  an  actual,  positive,  palpable 
loneliness,  as  gray  and  chill  as  the  sea,  as  all  pervad 
ing  as  the  boom  of  the  surf  far  out  on  the  rocky  bar. 

"  'And  who  knows  but  that  God,  beyond  our  guess, 
Sits  weaving  worlds  out  of  loneliness.*" 

"Did  you  write  that?" 

For  a  moment  Herrick  stared  and  then  he  laughed. 
She  would  always  do  it,  make  him  feel  old  and  spotted, 
and  then  whirl  him  up  to  the  heights  by  a  belief  in  his 
power. 

"It's  absolutely  perfect.  God, — weaving  worlds  be 
cause  He  is  lonely." 

"No.     It's  not  mine.     I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  be  able 


58  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

to  claim  it,  but  it  belongs  to  one  Arthur  Symons.  Do 
you  know  his  stuff?" 

"No.  Is  it  all  like  that  ?— 'Weaving  worlds  out  of 
loneliness.' " 

"Not  all.  But  he  saw  rather  far  into  the  heart  of 
things."  Without  further  comment  Herrick  began  to 
quote — whole  poems,  fragments,  single  lines.  It  was 
all  sad  and  beautiful  and  sensuous,  filled  with  the 
hunger  of  soul  and  body. 

His  voice  took  on  a  depth  it  did  not  have  in  usual 
speech.  It  fitted  perfectly  with  the  sad  booming  of 
the  surf  and  the  whimper  of  the  little  waves  that  ran 
in  terror  among  the  rocks.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  Jean  felt  the  ache  of  physical  beauty.  She  wanted 
to  cry. 

Toward  sundown  the  wind  died,  the  high  fog  parted 
and  the  sun  sank  in  a  wine-red  sea.  Out  on  the  ledge 
Jean  and  Herrick  watched  it  dip  .over  the  edge  of  the 
world. 

When  the  coming  night  had  stolen  the  last  thread 
of  color  from  the  sky  they  went  back  to  the  cove. 
Herrick  piled  brush  and  covered  it  with  great  logs 
of  driftwood.  At  the  touch  of  a  match,  crackling 
flames  ran  out  and  instantly  the  savage  loneliness  of 
the  sea  was  shut  away  and  the  cove  became  a  home. 

While  they  ate  the  sandwiches  they  had  brought  from 
the  ranch-house  where  they  had  stopped  for  dinner,  they 
talked  of  everything  and  of  nothing.  From  time  to 
time  Herrick  went  after  another  log  and  Jean  was  left 
alone,  conscious  of  his  absence,  of  the  blackness  be 
yond  the  fire  and  the  warm  security  of  the  rock  walls, 
lit  by  the  firelight.  Each  time  he  returned  Jean  felt 
that  she  knew  him  better. 

Stretched  on  the  sand,  his  head  on  Jean's  spread 
skirt,  Herrick  told  her  of  his  boyhood  and  his  passion 
ate  longing,  even  as  a  little  child,  for  the  warmth  and 
beauty  he  had  no  reason  to  believe  existed. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  59 

"We  had  one  of  the  poorest  farms  in  Connecticut, 
and  if  you  don't  know  Connecticut  you  can't  know 
what  that  means.  There  were  just  a  few  bleak  fields, 
enclosed  by  fences  of  stones  that  my  father  had  picked 
from  the  earth.  We  grew  a  little  corn  and  some  pota 
toes,  but  whenever  the  crop  was  good  there  was  no 
demand,  and  when  prices  were  high  something  always 
killed  the  crops.  We  had  a  few  lean  cows  which  I 
could  never  believe  had  been  calves.  I  could  never 
imagine  that  anything  on  the  place  had  ever  been 
young.  Even  my  father  and  my  mother.  It  seemed  to 
me  as  if  they  must  have  always  been  old  and  lived  in 
the  rickety  house,  in  the  bare  fields,  with  the  lean 
cows  and  the  failing  crops. 

"On  each  side  of  us  the  farms  had  been  deserted 
before  I  was  born.  Sometimes  I  used  to  wish  there  were 
other  boys  in  them  to  play  with,  but  for  the  most  part 
I  accepted  it  just  as  I  accepted  the  whining  complaints 
of  mother,  dad's  stooped  shoulders  and  the  feeling  of 
never  having  all  that  I  could  possibly  eat  at  one  time. 

"But  one  day  a  strange  man  drove  up.  He  was  fat, 
with  a  red  face  and  a  gold  watch-chain.  He  came  in 
and  clapped  father  on  the  back,  and  began  to  talk 
faster  and  laugh  more  than  any  one  I  had  ever  heard. 
Even  dad  and  mother  smiled  as  they  listened.  When 
mother  told  me  he  was  going  to  stay  all  night  I  went  out 
in  the  barn  and  cried." 

Herrick  stopped  and  looked  into  the  fire.  He  for 
got  Jean,  everything  but  the  memories  called  to  life 
by  his  own  words.  His  face  was  hard  with  hatred 
against  that  starved  childhood  and  against  his  parents, 
for  always  Herrick's  hatred  was  deep  against  the  thing 
that  hurt  him.  There  were  shadows  about  his  lips,  and 
his  hands  clenched  until  the  cords  rose  on  his  wrist. 

"You  poor,  lonely,  little  boy,"  Jean  whispered. 

"I  was.  For  you  see,  until  that  night,  when  Ed 
Pierce  came  back,  I  didn't  know  there  was  anything 


60  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

else.  I  used  to  feel  those  stone  fences  closing  in  like 
a  grave.  I  didn't  know  but  that  the  whole  world  was 
flat  and  bare  and  stony.  I  thought  that  the  Pierces 
and  Thompsons  had  just  died  under  the  strain,  and 
that  some  day  father  and  mother  would  die  too,  and 
then  I  would  be  left  alone. 

"After  dinner  we  sat  round  the  fire.  They  had  done 
all  the  gossiping  and  Ed  Pierce  began  to  tell  of  the 
Far  West.  You  must  say  it  just  like  that — The  Far 
West! 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  it  meant  to  me.  It  was  a 
mixture  of  Heaven  and  pirate  expeditions  in  tropic 
seas  and  gold  mines.  But  the  thing  that  stunned  me 
was  that  we  could  go.  It  was  on  this  earth  and  we 
could  get  there !  We  could  have  it  all,  if  father  would 
only  go  and  take  it.  I  can  hear  Pierce's  big  voice 
now:  'Take  a  chance,  Bill.  Don't  be  scared.  You're 
young  enough  yet.  You'll  make  good  with  a  quarter  of 
the  strength  you'll  waste  on  this  hole.* 

"And  my  father  sat  there  with  his  head  sunk  and  his 
shoulders  bent,  shaking  his  head! 

"I  crawled  over  to  his  chair  and  got  hold  of  his 
knees.  I  begged  him  to  go.  I  believe  I  screamed. 
Father  loosened  my  hands  and  told  me  to  shut  up. 
But  Pierce  said: 

"  'Listen  to  him,  Bill,  the  kid's  got  more  sense  than 
you.  You've  stuck  here  so  long  you're  plumb  scared 
to  move.' 

"I  got  hold  of  his  knees  again  and  begged  him  not 
to  be  scared.  At  last  he  took  me  by  the  arm  and 
dragged  me  to  the  door  and  locked  me  into  the  cold 
hall.  I  never  forgave  him.  In  the  morning  Ed  Pierce 
was  gone.  For  a  few  days  they  mentioned  him.  Then 
they  stopped  talking  about  him.  There  was  nothing 
left  but  the  stones  and  the  hope  of  The  Far  West. 
And  all  the  weary  years  till  I  could  get  there." 

"And  you  got  here." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  61 

"Yes.  I  got  here."  There  was  no  triumph  in  Her- 
rick's  tone. 

Jean  held  out  her  hands  to  him  suddenly.  "You 
see,  you  can  do  what  you  want." 

It  was  the  first  physical  response  Jean  had  ever  of 
fered.  Herrick  took  both  hands  in  his  and  laid  his 
cheek  on  them.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  got  to  his 
feet  and  helped  Jean  up. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  they  looked  back.  The 
fire  glowed  a  deep  red  hummock  on  the  black  beach. 
The  white  crescent  of  a  new  moon  hung  in  a  rift  of 
cloud  and  touched  to  silver  the  crests  of  the  long 
swells.  Herrick  walked  ahead  along  the  narrow  trail 
and  they  scarcely  spoke. 

But  at  the  gate,  under  shadow  of  the  acacia  that 
drooped  its  long  yellow  blooms  close  to  them,  Herrick 
put  his  arms  about  Jean,  pressed  his  lips  fiercely  to 
hers,  and  hurried  away. 

Jean  lay  awake  a  long  time,  feeling  the  hot  pressure 
of  Herrick's  soft  mouth  and  wishing  that  he  had  not 
kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

HERRICK  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  a  long 
time  as  he  sat  bareheaded  on  the  upper  deck 
and  thought  back  over  the  day  with  Jean  and  of  how 
she  had  looked  as  he  kissed  her.  It  excited  him  and 
made  him  tender  to  remember  the  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
the  faint  smile  deepened  as  he  wondered  what  she  was 
thinking  now.  Her  lips  had  not  responded  in  the  least, 
but  she  had  seemed  neither  angry  nor  frightened.  She 
had  accepted  it  as  she  would  have  accepted  a  leaf  fall 
ing  from  the  acacia  above.  And  yet  he  was  sure  that 
she  had  not  often,  if  ever,  been  kissed  by  a  man. 
In  some  ways  she  was  strangely  primitive  and  in 
others  she  seemed  to  have  lived  through  and  left  be 
hind  in  ages  past  the  ordinary  emotional  reactions. 
Herrick's  brain  was  on  fire  with  expectation  and  curi 
osity.  The  memory  of  the  kiss  quickened  his  mind  more 
than  his  body,  and  his  own  reaction  thrilled  him  with 
a  new  sensation. 

He  was  happy.  So  happy  that  he  could  not  go 
quietly  to  bed.  Nor  could  he  walk  alone  in  the  empty 
streets.  His  nerves  wanted  the  relaxation  of  compan- 
ic-iship.  The  perfect  day  wanted  a  touch  of  contrast 
to  fin;sh  its  perfection.  He  needed  to  frame  the  mem 
ory  of  Jean's  cool  lips,  possess  it  alone  in  another  set 
ting. 

A  few  moments  later  he  crossed  the  studio  amid 
the  shrieks  and  catcalls  of  The  Bunch,  straight  to  the 
couch  where  The  Kitten  was  curled  alone. 

"So  you  thought  you'd  come  and  see  whether  we 
were  alive.  It's  awfully  good  of  you!  But  you  know 

62 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  63 

we're  hard  to  kill.     Skin's  so  thick  the  little  stings  and 
arrows  don't  get  through,  somehow." 

The  Kitten  drawled  between  puffs  of  her  cigarette 
and  did  not  move  to  make  room  for  Herrick. 

He  lifted  her,  deposited  her  farther  back  among  the 
cushions  and  tried  to  take  her  hand.  She  was  so 
furious  and  making  such  a  ridiculous  pretense,  just  as 
she  used  to,  that  Herrick's  feel  of  youth  and  well-being 
increased.  It  was  as  if  the  memory  of  these  old  tricks, 
now  powerless  to  hurt,  gave  him  back  three  years  of 
time.  At  thirty-three,  Herrick  wanted  the  past. 

"But  claws  do,  Kittycat." 

"If  we'd  known  you  were  going  to  honor  us,"  per 
sisted  The  Kitten,  "we'd  have  ordered  champagne. 
As  it  is,  we  only  had  the  same  old  ink,  and  that's 
gone." 

"A  cigarette,  a  jug  of  ink  and  thou !" 

"You — you "     Then,  fearing  she  was  going  to 

cry,   she   stopped. 

Across  the  room  a  tall  girl  with  flat,  red  hair  and 
small  red-rimmed  eyes  like  glowing  embers  in  the 
white  ash  of  her  face,  broke  off  a  sentence  in  the  mid 
dle. 

"Who's  that  man  over  there,  just  come  in,  with 
The  Kitten?" 

Flop  glared  at  this  interest  on  the  part  of  his 
newest  inspiration. 

"Franklin  Herrick,  alias  Boy  Blue.  He  used  to  be 
the  real  thing,  but  he  hasn't  been  round  for  ages." 

The  girl  still  stared.  "I'd  like  to  model  him,"  she 
said  slowly.  "He  walks  like  a  panther,  has  the  fore 
head  of  a  saint  and  the  mouth  of  a  gutter  rat." 

"Great!  Why  don't  you  tell  him?  He'd  be  furious 
inside  and  look  as  if  he  were  going  to  kiss  you." 

"Maybe  I  will — if  I  get  a  chance." 

"You  won't.  The  Kitten's  been  sharpening  her 
claws  for  months." 


64.  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

On  the  couch  Herrick  was  holding  The  Kitten's 
hands,  stroking  them  softly. 

"Who's  the  other  woman?" 

Flop's  laugh  bellowed  above  the  noise.  "You  female 
Conan  Doyle."  His  voice  dropped.  "A  serious  im 
possibility — bromide  to  the  limit — but  she  has  a  good 
skin." 

"Brains?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me." 

"What's  he  see  in  her?" 

"What  are  you  so  interested  for?  How  do  I  know 
what  any  man  sees  in  a  woman?  You're  all  alike.  I 
suppose  when  Herrick  tries  to  kiss  her  she  screams, 
and  that'd  be  enough  to  interest  him." 

The  girl  smiled.  When  she  smiled  the  corners  of 
her  lips  turned  up  over  small,  uneven  teeth.  With  a 
shrug  of  indifference  she  slipped  her  hand  into  Flop's 
and  they  turned  toward  an  excited  group  at  the  other 
end.  Here  a  slight  man  in  a  brown  flannel  shirt 
and  red  tie,  with  gestures  preserved  from  his  student 
days  in  Paris,  was  arguing  a  technical  point  in  Ver- 
laine.  But  as  none  of  his  listeners  understood  French, 
he  was  finding  it  hard  to  maintain  the  requisite  heat. 
When  he  caught  sight  of  the  girl  he  appealed  to  her 
excitedly  in  a  French  whose  studied  correctness  made 
her  laugh.  She  answered  in  a  flood  of  rapid  patois 
incomprehensible  to  him.  A  smile  ran  round  the  group. 
Instantly  the  girl's  mood  changed. 

"Listen.  It  is  impossible  to  translate.  But  listen. 
You  will  hear  his  heart  beating,  throb,  throb,  in  the 
French." 

Her  arms  dropped  to  her  sides.  The  heavy  white 
lids  lowered  over  the  red  eyes.  For  a  moment  she 
stood  so,  artificial  and  decadent.  Then  she  began 
in  a  low,  sweet  voice  that  seemed  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  her  body. 

Her  voice  flowed  in  waves   across   the  great   room 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  65 

and  melted  into  the  shadows.  Flop  listened  with  his 
hands  before  his  face.  The  strutting  of  the  man  in 
the  brown  shirt  ceased.  The  Kitten  hid  her  face  on 
Herrick's  shoulder  and  his  arms  closed  about  her. 

The  girl  went  on,  poem  after  poem.  Herrick's  eyes 
filled  with  tears  and  his  hold  tightened  on  The  Kit 
ten.  She  shivered,  pressed  her  lips  deeper  into  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him  with  sudden,  sharp  kisses  that 
bit  like  hot  coals.  For  half  an  hour  the  voice  con 
tinued.  It  burned  away  the  memory  of  the  day  be 
hind,  of  the  sea,  of  the  exacting  faith  in  Jean's  gray 
eyes.  This  was  the  reality,  this  passion  that  throbbed 
in  the  poet's  words,  the  girl's  voice,  the  scorching 
kisses  of  the  small,  quivering  figure  in  his  arms.  To 
feel  and  feel  and  feel. 

The  voice  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun.  With 
the  shudder  of  a  medium  coming  from  a  trance,  the  girl 
opened  her  eyes.  Instantly  the  purity  of  the  listening 
silence  was  spotted  with  exaggerated  exclamations  of 
delight.  They  crowded  about  her.  Flop  brought  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  sitting  on  his  knee  she  sipped  it, 
while  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  corner  where  Herrick 
had  sat  and  stroked  The  Kitten's  hands.  The  corner 
was  empty.  She  grinned,  and  at  Flop's  request  kissed 
him  lightly  on  the  lips. 

As  they  walked  along,  choosing  the  darker  streets, 
neither  The  Kitten  nor  Herrick  spoke.  Her  fingers 
locked  tight  on  his  and  Herrick  walked  as  if  in  a 
dream  toward  a  fixed  point.  At  the  corner  of  the 
street  where  Vicky  and  The  Kitten  had  a  small  flat, 
Herrick  stopped. 

"Is  Vicky  home?" 

"No.     He  went  to  Tulare  a  month  ago." 

The  room  was  dark  except  for  a  long,  white  bar 
across  the  floor  from  a  street  lamp  outside.  Beside 
the  Morris  chair  Herrick  knelt  and  put  his  arms  about 
The  Kitten. 


66  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

All  the  miniature  independence  was  gone.  She  clung 
to  him  sobbing: 

"I  can't  stand  it  any  more.  I  love  you  and  you're 
cruel,  terribly  cruel." 

There  was  all  the  old  abandon,  the  absolute  sur 
render  in  the  figure  trembling  at  his  touch.  Of  all 
the  women  he  had  known  The  Kitten  had  loved  most 
passionately,  most  recklessly,  finding  no  flaw,  asking 
no  change,  holding  him  to  no  path.  She  loved  him 
absolutely,  utterly,  as  he  was.  And  it  had  bored  him, 

"I  know,  Boy,  you  only  did  it  to  hurt  me.  You  don't 
love  her-.  You  know  you  don't.  You  can't.  Boy  Blue," 
she  whispered,  her  lips  against  his  cheek,,  "promise 
your  Kittycat  you'll  never  see  her  again.  Then  I'll 
forget  all  the  hurt — every  single  teeny  bit." 

With  his  arms  about  her,  Herrick  looked  into  the 
dark  and  saw  Jean  as  he  had  left  her,  only  a  short 
time  before,  under  the  acacia,  part  of  the  clean  night. 
In  the  gray  fog  by  the  sea,  made  more  vital  by  the 
immense  sadness  and  beauty  of  it.  The  generous  giving 
of  her  hands  to  the  lonely  little  boy,  such  a  small,  piti 
ful  and  generous  gift.  Jean  with  her  unshakable  faith, 
her  courage  and  her  coldness.  He  felt  suddenly  old, 
and  afraid  of  his  own  fear. 

"Are  you  satisfied  now,  Boy  Blue?  You've  hurt 
me  enough — till  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself.  But  I 
don't  care.  Silly,  silly  Boy,  he  ran  away,  and  then 
he  came  back.  He  will  always  come  back,  always." 

Sure  of  him,  she  laughed  while  she  held  his  shoulders 
and  made  pretense  of  shaking  him. 

"But  it  was  funny  sometimes,  only  very  few  some 
times,  it  was  like  a  baby  going  out  with  a  little  spade 
against  a  granite  cliff.  That's  what  she's  like,  Boy, 
a  cold,  hard,  granite  cliff.  Maybe  he  bruised  his  head 
a  little  bit  against  the  nasty,  bad  cliff.  Well,  never 
mind,  mummy  will  make  it  well." 

The    Kitten    drew    his    head    against    her    breast. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  67 

"There,  there.  Now  it's  all  better.  Nobody  could 
beat  down  the  cliff,  so  he  mustn't  feel  bad,  but  just 
come " 

The  Kitten  bent  forward  from  the  shadows  and,  full 
in  the  bar  of  light,  smiled  at  him.  The  last  four  months 
had  made  deep  lines  about  her  scarlet  mouth.  In  the 
bar  of  white  light  she  was  ugly,  with  the  ugliness  of 
the  small  and  withering.  Herrick  stepped  back. 

"You're  ranting,  Kitten.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about." 

She  blinked  stupidly.  She  was  almost  hideous  in 
her  hungry  fear. 

"You  don't  understand.  You  can't  understand 
women  like  Jean." 

The  Kitten  got  slowly  to  her  feet. 

"But  she  doesn't  love  you.  You  couldn't  make  a 
woman  like  that  care." 

Herrick's  face  reddened. 

"Love!  Why,  Kitten,  you  don't  know  what  the 
word  means.  When  women  like  that  love,  it's  like  a 
prairie  fire.  A  white  fire  that  sweeps  everything  clean." 

"  'A  white  fire  that  sweeps  everything  clean !'  A 
white  prairie  fire,"  muttered  The  Kitten.  "You  fool! 
You  poor,  blind  fool.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  stand 
by  and  never  say  a  word?  Do  you  think  'the  white 
prairie  fire' — oh,  Lord,  what  a  figure ! — would  love 
you  if  she  knew?  Why,  she  wouldn't  even  kiss  you  if 
she  thought  you'd  held  another  woman  in  your  arms — 
the  great  pink-and-yellow  baby!  And  Vicky  knows. 
He  has  always  known.  They  all  know.  Vicky  will 

let  me  go.     I  am  willing.     I  am  not  ashamed.    I " 

She  felt  blindly  before  her  as  if  she  were  picking  the 
words  from  air. 

Herrick  moved  beyond  reach.  "Listen  to  me. 
There  is  no  question  of  whether  people  know  or  don't 
know.  You're  talking  like  a  lunatic.  There  never 
was  a  question  of  whether  Vicky  would  free  you  or 


68  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

not.  We  loved  each  other  once  and  now  it's  over. 
That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Herrick  was  thankful  for  the  fine  wrinkles,  for  all 
the  small  dried  ugliness  that  made  it  easy. 

The  Kitten  swayed,  steadied  herself,  and  said 
quietly : 

"You  will  have  to  marry  her."  She  stated  it  as 
a  simple  fact  that  Herrick  might  have  forgotten.  The 
inference  of  its  judgment  infuriated  him. 

"From  women  like  Jean  one  does  not  ask,  does  not 
want,  anything  less." 

Long  afterwards  he  envied  The  Kitten  her  moment's 
strength. 

"Will  you  go?"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

THE   next   day   The   Kitten    joined    Vicky  in  the 
country. 

Twice  in  the  next  three  Herrick  went  to  the  phone 
to  call  Jean,  and  hung  up  in  the  very  act  of  asking 
for  the  number. 

"You  can  never  make  her  care.  ..."  The  Kitten 
knew  him  as  no  woman  had  ever  known  him,  and  he 
hated  her  for  this  knowledge. 

He  went  nowhere  and  saw  no  one.  Through  the 
lonely  dinners,  and  long  evenings  in  the  studio,  Herrick 
worked  himself  into  a  fury  that  urged  him  on  and 
held  him  back.  His  anger  spread  from  The  Kitten 
to  Jean,  to  all  women.  He  was  sick  of  them,  weary 
of  the  power  they  had  always  had  over  him.  He 
loathed  the  women  who  had  yielded  to  him  and  the 
women  who  had  not.  He  hated  his  own  inability  to  live 
his  life  independent  of  them.  If  no  woman  had  ever 
crossed  his  life,  interfering  in  its  plan,  destroying  the 
dreams  he  had  dreamed  in  those  last  years  of  the  Con 
necticut  farm,  he  would  long  ago  have  written  some 
thing  worth  while.  He  would  have  succeeded  as  Free 
man  and  Harcourt  and  the  others  had  done.  He 
would  be  free  of  The  Bunch  in  their  hectic  fight  for 
forgetfulness.  His  life  would  be  ordered  with  calm 
poise.  He  had  it  in  him.  Jean  felt  it.  Could  she 
even  yet  make  him  what  he  might  have  been?  Like 
an  intermittent  fever  the  conflict  raged.  Then,  through 
sheer  exhaustion,  it  dropped  away.  Herrick  wondered 
what  it  had  all  been  about  and  went  again  to  call  for 

69 


70  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jean  at  the  closing  hour.     She  was  not  there.     Two 
weeks  before  Jean  had  lost  her  place. 

The  next  day  they  walked  again  in  the  hills.  Jean 
was  whiter  and  quieter  than  he  had  ever  seen  her. 
The  two  weeks  had  tried  her  nerves  almost  beyond 
control.  The  last  to  come  on  the  library  staff,  a  re 
duced  appropriation  demanded  that  Jean  be  the  first 
to  go.  And,  although  she  had  taken  no  joy  in  the 
work  itself,  she  had  been  happy  in  the  security  of  hav 
ing  work  to  do.  Now,  after  two  weeks  of  following 
every  advertisement  to  its  end,  only  to  discover  she 
had  none  of  the  experience  they  all  demanded,  the  old 
horror  of  teaching  had  come  back,  and  Jean  was 
almost  ill.  The  new  baby  cried  incessantly  and  the 
house  was  more  cluttered  than  ever.  Tom  had  at  last 
been  forced  into  a  job  at  a  ridiculous  salary  and  from 
morning  till  night  Elsie  predicted  starvation  for  herself 
and  her  "two  helpless  little  ones."  Through  it  all 
Martha  Norris  moved,  armored  by  prayer  to  gentle 
acceptance  of  these  petty  annoyances  that  Jean  felt 
closing  about  her  forever. 

Her  independence  weakened  by  fear  for  the  future, 
Jean  was  another  person  and  Herrick  thrilled  at  the 
new  Jean,  this  unsure,  rather  desperate  Jean.  She 
felt  his  strength  and  experience,  so  much  greater  than 
her  own,  and  his  understanding  and  sympathy  seemed 
to  relieve  her  from  the  necessity  of  maintaining  the 
silence  she  had  mapped  out  as  a  shield  against  the 
atmosphere  of  her  home.  For  the  first  time  she  told 
him  something  of  that  atmosphere,  of  her  childhood, 
not  as  poor  and  bare  as  his,  but  filled  with  the  same 
rebellion  for  something  whose  name  she  did  not  know. 
Much  of  what  Jean  sketched  in  bare  outline,  Herrick 
could  fill  in.  It  told  him  much  that  had  puzzled  him. 
He  knew  her  better  than  she  knew  herself. 

As  Jean  sat,  throwing  pebbles  into  the  almost  dry 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  71 

creek  at  their  feet,  he  knew  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
He  took  her  hands  in  his  and  forced  her  to  look  up. 

"Don't,  Jean.  It  hurts  me  terribly  to  see  you  un 
happy.  Something  will  turn  up.  It  always  does. 
I've  been  there  too,  you  know." 

Jean  smiled  through  her  tears.  "I  know  I'm  an 
idiot.  But  I  do  loathe  the  idea  of  teaching  and  yet  it's 
the  only  thing  I  suppose  I'm  fitted  for.  I  mean  I 
have  a  diploma,  an  actual  proof  on  paper,  that  I've 
been  through  the  preparatory  mill  and  I  can  wave  it 
in  their  faces.  I  shall  kill  the  next  person  who  asks 
me  if  I've  had  experience." 

"Well,  don't  begin  with  me,  please.  You're  posi 
tively  glaring." 

Jean  answered  his  laugh  and  felt  better. 

"Because  if  you  do  you'll  eliminate  my  valuable  as 
sistance,  and  I  think  maybe  I  see  light.  How  would 
you  like  to  go  on  a  paper?" 

"What!" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  suggesting  that  you  edit  one,  but 
there  are  several  things  of  lesser  importance,  things 
that  don't  need  more  than  an  ability  to  write  good 
English.  If  you  have  a  sense  of  color,  so  much  the 
better.  I  think  perhaps  you  have.  You'd  rather 
like  it  in  some  ways,  especially  at  first,  but  I  don't 
think  you'd  ever  be  a  howling  success.  You're  not 
what  they  call  'a  born  newspaper  woman.'  " 

"I  don't  believe  I'm  a  born  anything."  Jean  made 
no  effort  to  still  the  quavering  of  her  voice.  She  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  struggling  along  a  hard  road  by 
herself  and  some  one  had  suddenly  picked  her  up  and 
carried  her  to  a  safe  spot. 

"Nonsense.  Of  course  you  are.  Only  it  takes  some 
of  us  a  long  time  to  find  out.  Would  you  really  like 
to  try  it?" 

"I  should  like  it  more  than  anything  I  can  think 
of.  How  do  I  go  about  it?  Just  walk  in  and  say: 


72  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

'I'm  not  a  born  newspaper  woman,  but  please  give  me 
a  job'?" 

"Hardly,  though  it  might  not  be  such  a  bad  way. 
Anything  that  startles  an  editor  looks  like  ability  to 
him.  But  we'll  be  less  original  than  that.  Thompson 
of  the  Chronicle  is  going  to  start  a  new  Sunday  section 
and  he's  looking  for  some  one.  He  wants  some  one 
with  'a  new  angle,'  'fresh  viewpoint,'  'punch,'  etc. 
These  things  to  a  real  editor  are  like  the  golden  calf 
to  the  ancient  peoples.  He  grovels  before  them.  His 
life  is  spent  in  a  mad  search  for  them." 

"But  I  have  no  newspaper  angle  and  no  viewpoint 
at  all." 

"Patience,  neophyte.  That's  only  another  name  for 
a  perfect  greenhorn,  with  intelligence  and  an  ability  to 
manufacture  enthusiasm  for  the  editor's  pet  schemes. 
Do  you  think  you  can  do  that,  Jean?" 

"I  could  drown  in  enthusiasm,  genuine,  hysterical 
enthusiasm  over  anything  that  would  save  me  from 
school  teaching.  If  it  gave  me  enough  salary  to  move 
mummy  to  the  city  and  make  it  an  eternal  impossibil 
ity  for  her  ever  to  ask  Tom  and  Elsie  to  stay  five 
minutes,  I'd  drop  dead  of  sheer  exuberance." 

"Under  that  condition  I  may  not  speak  to  Thomp 
son.  But  if  you  promise  to  continue  in  this  life  I'll 
see  him  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  let  you 
know  by  afternoon.  I'm  not  sure  what  it  is.  You  may 
have  to  do  Household  Hints  or  Beauty  articles  or 
Society  notes.  You  may  develop  into  the  greatest 
Lady  Teazle  of  the  United  States  and  have  the  New 
York  papers  sending  for  you." 

"Then,  when  my  biography  is  written  you'll  be  men 
tioned  as  having  given  me  my  'first  chance.'  " 

"Is  that  the  only  capacity  in  which  I  figure  in  your 
life?"  Under  the  banter  Herrick's  eyes  looked  deep 
into  hers.  Jean  blushed. 

Again,  when  he  left  her,  Herrick  kissed  her.     This 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  73 

time  her  repulsion  was  less.  Jean  was  poignantly 
ashamed  that  it  was  there  at  all.  To  the  dead  black 
and  white  of  Jean's  logic  there  was  something  wrong 
in  feeling  as  near  as  she  felt  to  Herrick,  and  at  the 
same  time  sensing  that  slight  inner  revulsion  at  the 
touch  of  his  lips  on  hers. 


CHAPTER    NINE 

THOMPSON  of  the  Chronicle  was  a  large,  fat  man 
who  had  cultivated  what  he  considered  the  proper 
editorial  manner  so  that  even  in  ordinary  conversa 
tion  he  snapped  out  his  sentences  as  if  he  were  or 
dering  a  cub  reporter  to  a  fire.  He  prided  himself 
on  being  able  to  do  a  dozen  things  at  once  and  his 
fetish  was  concentration.  One  gathered  that  he  could 
write  a  better  article  in  a  power  house  than  in  a  li 
brary.  When  Jean  entered  he  was  scanning  the  proofs 
of  the  week's  edition,  making  notes  on  a  pad,  smok 
ing,  and  calling  three  numbers  on  the  telephone.  Jean's 
nerves  had  worn  her  almost  to  the  point  of  interrupting 
the  great  man,  before  he  glanced  at  her. 

"I'm  going  to  run  a  new  feature.  I  want  a  series 
of  interviews  with  leading  people  who  are  doing  things. 
I  don't  give  a  whoop  what  they  do  so  long  as  it's  for 
the  general  good,  'our  city,'  'civic  betterment,'  etc. 
But  I  don't  want  slush.  No  sob-sister  rot.  Civic 
pride  and  that  dope.  Herrick  says  you  can  do  it. 
The  first  will  be  with  Dr.  Mary  Mac  Lean.  We've  run 
her  regularly  about  every  six  months  since  Settlements 
got  popular.  You're  to  get  a  new  angle.  When  you 
get  the  hang  of  it,  you'll  have  to  find  your  own  inter 
views." 

He  almost  snarled  the  last  word,  glared  at  Jean  as 
if  she  had  taken  his  time  on  a  personal  matter,  and 
attacked  his  cigar  as  if  he  hadn't  had  one  for  fifty 
years.  Jean  had  never  heard  of  Dr.  Mary  Mac  Lean 
and  had  no  very  clear  idea  of  what  a  Settlement  was, 
but  she  did  not  ask.  When  she  had  gone,  the  Managing 

74 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  75 

Editor  made  a  hieroglyphic  in  his  memorandum,  favor 
able  to  Jean. 

As  she  sat  waiting  for  Dr.  Mary,  Jean's  courage 
came  back.  At  the  worst  the  doctor  could  only  refuse 
to  talk  to  her,  in  which  case  she  would  have  to  do  the 
best  she  could. 

"And  an  interview  where  the  interviewed  refuses  to 
say  anything  doesn't  leave  much  room  for  slush." 

Steps  sounded  in  the  hall  and  a  stocky  woman,  in  a 
walking  skirt  that  made  her  appear  even  shorter,  with 
quantities  of  fluffy  white  hair  piled  on  a  large  head, 
stood  in  the  doorway,  peering  nearsightedly  through 
gold  pince-nez.  She  looked  like  a  large,  good-natured 
and  freshly  washed  puppy  picking  up  a  scent.  Jean 
went  forward. 

"Dr.  Mary  Mac  Lean?  I  am  Jean  Norris.  I  'phoned 
you  about  an  interview." 

The  pince-nez  flew  off  as  if  Dr.  Mary  had  pressed 
a  button  somewhere  about  her  plump  person,  and  Jean 
smiled.  Dr.  Mary  returned  the  smile.  Without  the 
thick  lenses  of  the  glasses  her  eyes  were  small  but  very 
bright.  They  were  like  two  little  searchlights,  ready 
to  be  turned  on  any  fact.  When  she  smiled,  the  cor 
ners  crinkled  into  wrinkles. 

"Well,  go  right  on.  I  suppose  you're  primed  to  the 
hilt."  Dr.  Mary  took  a  deep  chair  and  motioned 
Jean  to  another.  "What's  it  going  to  be  this  time? 
Poverty,  sin,  crime,  religion,  the  Social  Evil,  the 
plague,  red  or  white,  suffrage,  minimum  wage,  I.W.W.- 
ism,  organized  labor,  inefficiency  of  the  workingman, 
college  education,  or  How  I  Went  Into  the  Work?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  see,"  Jean  answered  in  a  sud 
den  resolve  to  take  the  doctor  into  her  confidence, 
"I'm  very  specially  at  sea.  I  don't  know  a  thing  about 
any  of  those  things,  not  even  enough  to  ask  for  en 
lightenment.  I  never  heard  of  you  up  till  an  hour 
ago  and  would  hate  to  be  put  on  a  stand  to  tell  what 


76  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

a  Settlement  was.  I  know  you  do  wonderful  things 
with  the  poor,  but  I  don't  know  whether  you  pay  their 
rent,  or  make  them  send  their  children  to  school.  It's 
because  I  don't  know  anything  about  you  that  they 
sent  me.  They  want  something  new  that  won't  drivel." 

Dr.  Mary  laughed  till  the  tears  stood  in  her  twink 
ling  blue  eyes. 

"My  dear,  that's  the  most  adequate  explanation 
I  ever  got  from  an  interviewer,  and  the  Lord  knows 
I've  sampled  them  all.  So  they're  after  something  new 
that  won't  drivel."  She  bent  forward  with  exaggerated 
caution.  "Do  you  know,  Miss  Norris,  I  have  imperiled 
my  immortal  soul  and  ruined  my  vocabulary,  reading 
those  interviews  with  myself.  They've  called  me  every 
thing  from  Feminine  Tolstoy  to  All  Womanhood's 
Sister.  Now,  would  you  like  to  be  called  All  Woman 
hood's  Sister  because  you  installed  three  washtubs  in 
an  outhouse  for  some  poor  women?" 

"I  should  loathe  being  called  All  Womanhood's  Sis 
ter  for  any  reason.  But  is  there  anything  they  haven't 
asked  you?" 

Dr.  Mary  cocked  her  head  to  one  side  like  a  badly 
proportioned  bird  and  nodded: 

"Yes.  Nobody  has  ever  had  sense  enough  yet  to 
ask  me  if  there  isn't  something  I  want  to  tell  them. 
They  always  come  with  their  ammunition  ready  and 
it  amuses  me  to  watch  them  shoot  wild." 

"Then  I  qualify  for  'the  new  angle,'  for  I  haven't 
a  bullet  with  me.  Will  you  tell  me,  Dr.  Mac  Lean,  if 
there's  anything  you  want  to  say?" 

Dr.  Mary's  face  sobered.  "Perhaps  I  can  better 
show  you.  Come/' 

The  next  was  a  wonderful  hour  to  Jean.  She  felt 
as  if  the  doctor  were  going  before  her,  tearing  down 
walls,  opening  worlds  she  had  never  glimpsed.  At  the 
door  of  the  last  room,  Dr.  Mary  paused. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  one  of  our  girls.     In  some 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  77 

ways  she  combines  all  the  problems  we  have — economic, 
social,  educational.  And  there  are  many  like  her." 

The  doctor  turned  the  handle  and  they  entered  a 
large,  well-lighted  room,  fitted  with  sewing  machines. 
A  dozen  dark  women  were  busy  sewing,  and  their  laugh 
ter  mingled  with  the  whir  of  the  machines.  They  all 
smiled  and  gave  greetings  in  strange  broken  phrases 
of  English,  as  Dr.  Mary,  followed  by  Jean,  crossed 
to  the  farthest  corner  where  a  girl  of  nineteen  was 
sewing  furiously.  She  stopped  and  looked  up,  smiling. 

"Well,  Carmen,  how's  Jaime  to-day?" 

"Oh,  so  well!  He  get  fat."  The  soft  voice  blurred 
the  words  to  a  single  low  note  as  the  girl  reached  over 
to  the  wicker  basket  on  the  chair  beside  her.  She  lifted 
the  baby  and  turned  with  radiant  face  to  the  doctor. 

"See.     Hees  legs — so  fat." 

She  turned  back  the  coarse  little  dress  and  showed 
with  pride  the  small  shriveled  legs.  The  doctor  bent 
over  the  baby,  so  fragile  and  withered  that  it  seemed 
something  not  new-born  but  something  older  than  time, 
and  gave  a  few  directions  in  Spanish.  The  girl  nodded 
and,  as  the  baby  began  to  whimper,  buried  her  face  in 
the  wrinkled  neck  and  crooned  to  him.  Over  her  bowed 
head,  the  doctor's  lips  motioned  to  Jean:  "Blind,  but 
she  doesn't  know  it  yet." 

Jean's  throat  tightened  and  she  felt  sick  with  the 
sadness  of  it ;  the  girl-mother  and  the  baby,  so  old,  so 
weak,  so  resigned,  as  if  it  had  accepted  its  burden  far 
back  down  the  ages.  The  girl  put  the  baby,  quieted 
now,  into  its  basket.  It  lay  for  a  moment  staring  with 
its  great,  empty  black  eyes,  and  then  closed  them 
wearily.  The  girl  covered  him  with  a  bit  of  mosquito 
netting  and  sat  down  to  her  work  again.  Before  they 
were  out  of  the  room,  she  was  sewing  furiously  again. 

Jean  looked  at  the  doctor. 

"Carmen  Gonsalez,  but  I  call  her  to  myself,  Mater 
Dolorosa.  She  has  never  been  to  school,  although  she 


78  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

was  born  right  here  in  San  Francisco  and  has  wanted 
all  her  life  to  read.  She  is  just  turned  nineteen.  Be 
fore  she  was  fourteen  she  went  to  work  in  a  tamale 
factory  and  learned  first  hand  the  existence  of  all  the 
evil  she  did  not  already  know  from  her  own  home.  At 
sixteen  she  left  the  tamale  factory  because  the  fore 
man  gave  her  no  peace,  and  went  to  work  in  an  Ameri 
can  overall  factory.  She  thought  American  men  'were 
different/ 

"They  are  different.  A  Mexican  of  the  same  caliber 
makes  no  bones  about  his  desires,  but  Mr.  George  Far- 
rel  crept  to  his  goal  like  a  snake.  She  loves  him  yet. 
She  believes  he  will  come  back,  although  she  has  not 
heard  of  him  for  months.  Only  once  have  I  ever  seen 
her  angry — I  never  want  to  see  it  again.  It  was  like 
the  crushing  force  of  a  glacier.  She  was  whiter  than 
paper  and  so  still.  Some  one  had  told  her  that  George 
had  married  a  Gringo.  It  is  true.  Once  I  thought  I 
might  tell  her  after  the  baby  was  born.  But  it  was 
born  blind.  'The  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children, 
yea,  even  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation.'  " 

"I  should  think,"  Jean  cried  passionately,  "that  you 
would  hate  the  whole  human  race." 

"No.  You  see,  I  have  been  very  many  years  in  this 
work  and  that  first  rage  has  worn  off.  We  all  have  it. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  is  what  brings  us  unto  it  at  all. 
We  see  the  crime  and  sin  and  sorrow  and  we  are  filled 
with  a  blind  passion  to  straighten  it  out.  It's  as  in 
stinctive,  at  the  base,  as  emotional  an  act  as  jumping 
into  a  river  to  save  some  one.  And  then,  after  a  time, 
long  or  short  according  to  one's  temperament,  you 
learn  what  I  sometimes  think  is  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  worth  knowing — The  Colonel's  Lady  and  Judy 
O'Grady  are  sisters  under  their  skin.  Then  you  don't 
get  angry  any  more  at  social  injustice,  or  very  sad, 
not  unless  you  happen  to  have  indigestion  or  try  to 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  79 

burn  the  candle  at  both  ends.  You  just  go  along  and 
believe." 

"In  what?" 

Dr.  Mary  laughed.  "Sometimes  I  don't  know.  Often 
I  think  believing  is  just  a  general  state  of  being,  like 
feeling  well.  It's  not  belief  in  a  personal  God  and  it's 
not  unshakable  faith  in  man  and  most  surely  it's  not 
a  belief  in  the  tremendous  importance  of  one's  job. 
Belief  in  what?  I  think  in  tin's — That  the  Colonel's 
Lady  and  Judy  go  round  in  cycles,  hand  in  hand  at 
that,  and  each  cycle  is  a  needed  cycle,  because  in  the 
end — it's  going  to  make  a  spiral.  At  least  that's  as 
near  as  I  can  word  it,  Miss  Norris,  and  I  try  to  be 
lieve  it  most  of  the  time,  the  spiral  part,  I  mean." 

She  walked  with  Jean  to  the  street  door,  but  stood 
for  a  moment  before  opening  it. 

"Now  you  know  what  it  is  I  want  to  say  and  if  you 
can  put  it  intt  words  you  can  do  better  than  I.  But 
that's  your  business.  I  want  to  make  these  people 
happier  because  I  have  lived.  And  I  want  to  be  hap 
pier  because  they  have  lived.  I  want  to  take  the  blind 
passion  of  the  Carmens  and  hitch  it  to  the  aridity  of 
the  rich  ladies  who  come  in  their  limousines  to  our 
committees.  I  want  to  beat  some  of  the  primitive 
vengeance  of  a  Sicilian  fisherman  into  the  George  Far- 
rels.  I  want  to  teach  the  women  not  to  make  the  sign 
of  the  Evil  Eye  when  somebody  stops  them  on  the 
street  and  looks  at  the  baby,  and  I  want  the  person 
who  stops  them  on  the  street  not  to  have  spasms  be 
cause  the  baby  is  swaddled  in  a  fashion  they  have  never 
seen.  Personally,  it  makes  me  sick  to  see  flies  buzzing 
over  a  baby,  but  no  sicker  than  it  does  to  hear  some 
of  the  comments  of  the  people  who  come  to  visit  us. 
Not  half  so  sick.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I'd  rather  have 
a  baby  swaddled  to  death  and  eaten  by  flies  than  talk 
ten  minutes  to  the  flyspecked  souls  and  swaddled  brains 
of  some  of  our  visitors.  And  if  you  can  get  it  through 


80  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

the  heads  of  the  public,  Miss  Norris,  you  will  be  doing 
a  good  thing.  In  a  way,  a  place  like  this  is  public  and 
we  don't  want  to  keep  people  out.  But  whenever  a  re 
view  of  any  kind  appears  we  are  always  swamped  as 
if  we  were  a  sideshow.  It  wouldn't  be  worth  while  pay 
ing  any  attention  to,  except  that  it  does  show  a  serious 
side  of  the  whole  attitude.  For  it  reflects  very  really 
what  the  Colonel's  Lady  thinks  of  Judy  O'Grady  and 
it's  bad  for  them  both." 

The  telephone  rang.  Dr.  Mary  held  out  her  hand. 
"It  may  sound  vague,  but  we're  in  earnest." 

"It  sounds  anything  but  that.  I  feel  as  if  you'd 
turned  a  white  searchlight  on  Society  for  me,  and — — " 

''All  right.  So  long  as  you  don't  call  the  article 
that.  'Gropings'  would  be  nearer  the  mark.  But  if 
you're  really  interested  come  and  see  me  sometimes.. 
We're  pretty  busy  all  the  week,  but  I  usually  have 
Sunday  afternoons  to  myself.  It's  the  only  time  I 
have  for  my  personal  friends.  I  want  you  to  come*" 

"I  certainly  shall,  and  thank  you." 

Waiting  in  a  drugstore  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  Her- 
rick  saw  Jean  before  she  saw  him.  She  was  walking 
quickly,  her  head  back,  her  eyes  glowing. 

"Good  Lord,  what's  happened?  She  looks  like  a 
modern  Joan  of  Arc." 

Herrick  stepped  out  and  joined  her.  "I  suppose 
you  would  have  walked  right  over  me  and  not  known 
it.  You  look  as  if  you  were  just  about  to  step  off  the 
edge  of  the  world  into  eternal  joy.  What  happened?" 

"She's  the  most  wonderful  person  that  ever  lived!" 
Jean's  enthusiasm  rayed  from  her  in  a  physical  cur 
rent.  Herrick  smiled. 

"No  wonder  the  rest  of  us  dry  up  and  grow  old. 
People  like  you  and  Dr.  Mary  have  cornered  all  the 
energy  and  belief  in  the  universe." 

"Don't  mention  me  in  the  same  breath.  My  en 
thusiasms  and  beliefs  are  like — like  specks  of  dust  on 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  81 

a  diamond  compared  to  hers.  I  feel  like  a  puling  in 
fant  beside  King  Solomon.  Just  think  of  it — to  go 
on  never  giving  up,  never  weakening,  always  believing. 
To  feel  that  you  mean  something.  Not  that  you  just 
fit  in,  but  that  you  have  a  place  that  nobody  else  can 
take !  To  do  things.  To  take  human  beings  and  make 
them  into  something!" 

"Do  they  have  to  be  poor  and  dirty  and  foreign, 
Jean?  Wouldn't  just  plain  needing  be  enough?" 

The  voice  was  wistful  and  Jean  laughed  rather  un 
certainly.  "No,  I  don't  suppose  they  would  have  to 
be  dirty." 

"Just  so  long  as  they  were  miserable  and  weak  and 
dependent  enough?" 

"Yes.  I  guess  that  would  do.  I  suppose  all  women 
like  to  be  needed.  It  flatters  our  vanity  and  makes 
up  for  all  the  big  things  in  the  world  we  can't  get  at." 

Herrick  gave  Jean's  hand  a  quick  pressure  and  let 
it  go.  "Kind  of  indirect  action.  Well,  did  this  won 
derful  person  come  through  with  an  interview?" 

"Yes.  I  suppose  she  did,  if  you  call  shooting  a  per 
fect  ignoramus  into  a  new  world,  an  interview.  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  out  with  a  little  kite  to  gather  all  the 
electricity  in  the  heavens.  Just  think  of  trying  to 
get  that  personality  into  three  thousand  words  and 
hand  it  in  to-morrow." 

"It'll  look  more  possible  after  dinner,  a  large,  soggy 
dinner.  Nothing  like  it  for  dragging  the  soul  down 
within  reach." 


CHAPTER    TEN 

WHENEVER  Jean  looked  back  on  that  night  she 
could  remember  every  detail  of  the  dinner,  every 
thing  that  had  been  said,  almost  the  order  of  its  say 
ing.  Thrilled  by  the  happiness  and  vitality  of  Jean 
and  of  the  emotional  response  Dr.  Mary  had  waked  in 
her,  Herrick  let  himself  go  in  the  delight  of  answering 
completely  to  her  mood.  Something  of  the  sensation 
of  flying  entered  them  both,  as  if  they  were  skimming 
all  discord,  all  the  petty  misunderstanding  of  ordinary 
intercourse.  Long  after,  Jean  smiled  as  she  remem 
bered  how  strongly  this  feeling  had  held  her  and  how 
sure  she  had  been  of  it. 

It  was  a  gay  dinner  and  they  sat  on  in  the  little 
restaurant  until  almost  nine.  Whenever  Jean  found 
a  good  phrase  or  Herrick  had  an  illuminating  idea 
on  the  structure  of  the  article  they  jotted  it  down. 
When  they  finished  there  was  quite  a  sheaf  of  these 
notes. 

"It's  a  shame  to  let  them  cool  off.  We  ought  to 
whip  the  thing  into  final  shape  to-night,  lock  it  up 
forever  in  typing.  Besides,  if  you're  not  used  to 
working  in  a  racket,  you  may  not  be  able  to  do  it  in 
the  office  to-morrow.  And  if  you  put  it  over  you've 
got  the  job  cinched." 

"I  know.  I'll  sit  up  all  night,  I  suppose,  and  it 
can't  be  so  bad  just  to  have  to  copy  it  in  the  office." 

"I'll  tell  you  a  better  scheme  than  that.  We'll  go 
up  to  my  place  and  type  it  now." 

Jean  had  never  been  to  Herrick's  rooms  and  for  a 
moment  she  hesitated.  Then  the  absurdity  of  her 

82 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  S3 

convention  struck  her.  She  had  been  alone  in  Flop's 
when  she  scarcely  knew  Herrick  at  all,  and  for  hours 
in  the  hills. 

"Fine." 

Herrick  paid  the  sleepy  waiter  and  tipped  him  so 
generously  that  he  woke  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
marionette.  They  departed,  laughing  under  his  effusive 
thanks. 

Like  Flop's,  Herrick's  room  was  the  top  floor  of 
a  dilapidated  building  that  had  once  been  a  place  of 
business  but  was  now  filled  with  cheap  studios.  It 
was  large  and  barely  furnished,  with  a  long  table,  a 
desk,  a  couch  and  a  few  chairs.  There  were  no  cur 
tains  at  the  windows,  and  a  tall  office  building,  like 
a  back-drop,  cut  into  the  night  sky.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  Herrick  to  think  about  the  bareness  of  his 
room  until  he  saw  Jean's  look  of  approval. 

"A  real  workroom,  in  which  we  are  going  to  write 
the  hit  of  the  Sunday  edition." 

He  uncovered  his  typewriter  and  pulled  the  drop- 
light  over  the  desk. 

As  Jean  laid  her  things  on  the  couch  and  took  the 
chair  Herrick  drew  up  for  her  at  the  table,  she 
thought:  "It's  like  a  large  cell.  In  another  age  he 
might  have  been  a  monk." 

They  worked  rapidly  and  well  together.  Jean  dic 
tated  and  Herrick  typed.  When  it  was  done  he  read 
it  aloud. 

"That's  great  stuff.  I'll  see  that  Thompson  stands 
me  a  drink  for  finding  him  such  a  prodigy." 

"But  it  isn't  all  mine.  I  could  never  have  done  it 
alone.  I  should  probably  have  blurbed  all  over  the 
place  but  for  your  restraining  influence,  or  become  dis 
gusted  and  given  it  up." 

"You  see,  it's  not  easy  to  do  things  alone,  even  when 
we're  very  full  of  them  and  want  to  very  much.  Is  it  ?" 

He  looked  up  suddenly  and  Jean  saw  the  loneliness 


84  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

that  she  had  glimpsed  so  often  below  Herrick's  moods. 
The  loneliness  of  the  small  boy  in  the  bare  fields  and 
of  the  grown  man  with  The  Bunch. 

"No — I  don't  suppose  it  is." 

There  was  a  long  silence  and  then  Herrick  said, 
as  if  they  had  often  spoken  of  it  before: 

"Do  you  know,  sometimes  I  have  felt  that  you  think 
I  am  weak  or  that  I  don't  want  to  do  the  novel  very 
much,  and  it  hurts  to  have  you  think  that.  I  suppose 
if  I  were  a  genius,  or  had  the  will  of  I  don't  know  what, 
I  would  sit  up  here  and  write  and  write  and  write. 
But  I'm  not  made  that  way.  To  go  week  after  week, 
month  after  month,  alone,  believing  in  yourself,  fight 
ing  through  those  horrible  moods  of  depression  when 
all  your  work  seems  piffling  and  insincere,  beginning 
again — ugh."  Herrick  shivered  as  if  his  own  words 
had  opened  a  window  through  which  blew  a  cold  blast 
of  memory.  "I  don't  doubt  there  are  people  who 
could.  But  I  can't." 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  thought  you  were  weak,  or 
that  you  didn't  want  to  do  it,  but  I  have  wished  often 
that  you  would." 

Jean  forced  her  eyes  to  meet  Herrick's.  She  felt 
that  she  owed  him  something  and  that  words  were  not 
enough.  The  color  ran  under  her  smooth  skin  and 
her  eyes  were  shy.  Herrick  came  nearer  but  he  did 
not  touch  her.  The  lines  of  his  face  were  clean  and 
sharply  chiseled  and  his  eyes  burned.  He  spoke  sim 
ply,  making  no  personal  demand,  even  for  sympathy. 

"I  do  want  to  do  it,  Jean,  very,  very  much.  More 
perhaps  than  I  can  make  you  understand.  But  if  it  is 
ever  written,  it  will  be  because  some  one  believes  in 
me." 

"You  have  friends — and  they  believe." 

"Do  'they'?  Maybe  they  do.  But  I  can't  imagine 
Flop,  or  any  of  them,  stopping  long  enough  from 
their  own  affairs  to  listen  to  a  single  chapter.  Be- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  85 

sides  I  don't  believe  it's  the  kind  of  thing  they  would 
like.  It's  not  'strong.'  I  doubt  it's  even  the  'real 
stuff.'  " 

Jean  held  down  the  unreasoning  joy  rising  in  her. 
Calmly  and  naturally  Herrick  was  justifying  her  faith 
in  him. 

"Perhaps  you're  not  quite  fair.  If  you've  never 
tried  them  you  can't  be  sure.  Sometimes  I've  thought 
that  The  Kitten,  in  some  moods,  was  awfully  tired  of 

it,  the  noise  and  heat  and — and "  Jean  broke  off 

in  her  clumsy  effort  to  be  perfectly  just,  for  Herrick 
was  looking  at  her  in  a  strange,  piercing  way  and  she 
felt  that  again  she  was  falling  below  the  standard 
of  honesty  he  had  set  for  her.  Her  eyes  dropped. 
Herrick  laid  both  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  she 
could  feel  their  cold  grip  on  her  skin. 

"If  the  novel  is  ever  written,  Jean,  it  will  be  because 
some  one  cares  for  me  and  believes  because  of  caring. 
With  a  woman  like " 

"Don't,"  Jean  whispered. 

"It's  so  lonely,  so  damned  cold  and  lonely  and  hide 
ous,"  Herrick  went  on,  as  if  he  were  not  speaking  to 
Jean  at  all.  "We're  like  a  lot  of  lost  shades,  each  locked 
in  the  isolation  of  his  own  personality,  wandering  about 
in  a  fog.  We  never  really  meet  or  touch,  but  grope 
about  blindly,  never  finding  because  there's  nothing 
really  to  find." 

"Don't.  It's  too  cruel,  and  it  can't  be  true.  There 
must  be  something,  somewhere." 

"Where?" 

Jean  thought  of  her  own  groping  and  of  her  mother, 
the  tense  little  figure  praying  to  her  God. 

"I  don't  know." 

"There  is  nothing.  Free  will?  That's  only  the 
power  to  choose  between  one  dead  deed  and  another." 

Jean  thought  of  Dr.  Mary. 


86  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"It  isn't  true,"  she  cried  eagerly.  "We  are  not 
locked  in  alone.  We're  bound  tight  to  every  other 
living  soul  on  earth.  We're  not  blind  or  lost  in  a  fog. 
There's  nothing  so  ugly  in  the  whole  world  that  we 
can't  make  beautiful  if  we  want  to." 

Herrick  drew  her  a  little  closer.  "Can  we,  Jean? 
Maybe.  But  not  alone.  I  know.  I  have  been  alone 
all  my  life — until  I  met  you." 

His  voice  vibrated  with  the  passion  that  was  carry 
ing  him  beyond  his  control.  He  was  like  a  man  borne 
on  a  swift  current  past  familiar  banks,  unable  to  stop. 
And  on  the  bank  stood  all  the  women  he  had  ever 
known,  mocking,  hating,  amused.  Plainest  of  all  was 
The  Kitten.  Her  eyes  were  calm,  and  he  heard  her 
say  quietly:  "You  will  have  to  marry  her." 

."That's  why  I  have  done  nothing,  Jean,  because  I 
have  been  always  alone.  Will  you  help  me,  Jean?" 

"Yes."  Jean  spoke  gravely.  "I  will  help  you  as 
much  as  I  can." 

"Will  you  marry  me?"  he  asked  quietly.  "I  need 
you  so." 

"Yes."    She  said  simply.    "We  will  help  each  other." 

Herrick  thrilled  with  her  power  and  for  a  moment 
rose  to  it. 

"You  wonderful  big,  white  woman!  We  will  love 
and  work  together." 

The  color  burned  Jean's  face.  Laughing,  Herrick's 
arms  closed  about  her. 

"Kiss  me,  Jeany." 

Jean  turned  her  head  and  laid  her  cool  lips  on  his 
cheek.  Herrick's  hold  tightened. 

"Jean,  I  believe  you're  a  flirt.  That's  no  kind  of  a 
kiss.  I  want  a  real  one." 

Jean  laughed  a  little  tremulously.  "That  was  a 
real  one." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  87 

The  edge  of  Herrick's  joy  dulled.  Did  she  mean 
it?  Was  that  a  kiss  to  her? 

"All  right,  dear.  It  is — if  you  mean  it  that  way." 
He  tried  to  smile  but  Jean  felt  that  in  some  way  she 
had  hurt  him. 

Very  dimly  she  sensed  depths  in  the  relationship  of 
men  and  women  of  which  she  knew  nothing. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

SO  you  are  going  to  marry  him."  Martha  picked  up 
the  toast  that  had  burned  while  Jean  talked  and 
threw  it  on  the  fire. 

In  the  bright  sunshine  she  looked  old.  Her  flesh 
was  pale  and  flaccid,  like  the  flesh  of  overworked  peo 
ple,  or  of  the  aged  who  have  gone  without  sleep.  Her 
hair  was  twisted  in  a  tight  knot>  but  stray,  gray  wisps 
escaped.  Her  throat  was  stringy  and  the  chin  muscles 
sagged. 

Jean  tried  not  to  look  at  the  discolored  neck  and 
the  thin,  worn  hands.  They  stood  for  all  that  her 
mother  had  missed  in  life.  It  roused  something  in  her 
sharper  than  pity,  a  kind  of  anger.  With  an  effort 
she  went  round  the  table. 

"Mummy,  don't  look  like  that."  Jean  knelt  and 
put  her  arms  about  the  rigid  figure. 

Martha  did  not  move.  It  had  come  so  suddenly, 
before  she  had  found  strength  to  meet  it.  She  had 
disliked  Franklin  Herrick  on  sight  and  even  this  morn 
ing,  at  early  service,  had  knelt  long  after  the  close 
of  mass  and  prayed  that  he  might  be  taken  out  of 
Jean's  life. 

And  now  Jean  was  going  to  marry  him.  To  take 
him  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health, 
till  death  parted  them.  She  heard  herself  saying  the 
words  that  had  bound  her  for  life  to  Jean's  father. 
She  had  tried  to  do  her  duty,  but  death  had  come  as 
a  great  release.  She  had  done  her  best  and  had  had 
the  sacraments  of  the  Church  and  prayer  to  help 
her.  Jean  had  nothing.  She  was  plunging  blindly 

88 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  89 

into  this  state,  the  greatest  personal  martyrdom  or 
dained  by  God.  And  with  Franklin  Herrick.  Martha 
could  see  no  plan,  no  purpose  in  this  thing  and  battled 
to  hold  firm  her  faith. 

"Mummy  dear,  don't.  Please  don't  look  like  that, 
as  if  something  terrible  had  happened." 

"Something  terrible  has  happened,  Jean.  You  are 
going  to  yoke  yourself  for  life,  think  of  it,  for  all  the 
years  God  may  demand  you  live  on  this  earth,  with 
a  man  who  has  no  higher  conception  of  life  than  an 
animal." 

Jean's  arms  dropped  to  her  sides  and  she  pressed 
her  lips  tightly  together. 

"And  he  will  lead  you  farther  and  farther  away, 
Jean.  He  has  a  power  over  you  that  I  would  never 
have  believed,  never.  Ever  since  you  have  known  him 
you  have  been  different.  You're  ready  at  his  beck 
and  call.  Have  you  ever  refused  to  go  anywhere  when 
he  has  asked  you?  Long  ago  you  gave  up  church, 
but,  still,  you  spent  the  day  with  some  kind  of  respect. 
But  now,  how  do  you  spend  the  day  that  God  Him 
self  put  aside  for  His  worship?" 

"In  the  hills  that  He  made."  Jean  almost  prayed 
for  strength  to  be  patient. 

"And  your  friends?  Infidels  and  wasters  and  adul 
terers,  by  your  own  story.  Oh,  Jeany,  Jeany,  my 
baby." 

Martha  laid  her  head  on  the  table  and  sobbed. 

Jean  rose.  In  spite  of  all  her  effort  to  do  other 
wise  she  could  not  help  it.  She  felt  a  physical  nausea 
at  the  sight  of  her  mother's  emotion.  She  tried  to  go 
nearer  and  could  not.  She  could  not  comfort  or  touch 
that  quivering  figure. 

"Let's  not  talk  any  more  about  it,  mother.  It  will 
only  make  us  both  unhappy." 

Martha  struggled  with  her  feeling  as  with  an  enemj 


90  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  conquered.     She  rose,  too,  and  for  a  moment  they 
stood  facing  each  other. 

"There  is  some  good  purpose  in  it  all,  there  must 
be  and  He  will  show  me.  Perhaps  I  have  loved  you 
too  much  and  He  has  chosen  this  instead  of  death. 
You  must  have  patience  with  me,  Jean.  He  will  show 
me.  Till  then  I  can  only  say  blindly — Thy  will  be 
done." 

Before  the  tremendous  egotism  of  her  mother's  hu 
mility,  Jean  went  slowly  back  to  the  table  and  sat 
down. 

"When  are  you  going  to  be  married?"  Martha 
dried  her  eyes  and,  crossing  to  the  stove,  brought  the 
hot  coffee  and  filled  both  their  cups. 

"Very  soon,"  Jean  answered  wearily.  "There's  no 
reason  to  wait,  and  Franklin  wants  to  get  settled  at 
some  work." 

Martha  winced  at  the  name. 

The  next  moment  the  door  opened  and  Tom  and 
Elsie  and  Tommykins  came  in.  Tom  was  even  fatter 
and  redder  than  usual  and  more  offensively  good- 
natured.  He  insisted  on  guessing  what  had  happened, 
until  Jean  stopped  the  flow  of  his  ridiculous  supposi 
tions  with  a  brief: 

"I  am  going  to  be  married." 

Elsie  hugged  her,  and  Jean  gathered  from  the  cat 
aract  of  congratulations  that  Elsie  had  never  expected 
her  to  marry,  that  marriage  was  the  only  thing  in  a 
woman's  life,  that  it  was  one  long  martyrdom.  You 
were  to  be  pitied  if  you  did  and  pitied  if  you  didn't. 
Then  Elsie  dabbed  at  her  eyes  and  they  all  sat  down 
to  the  late  Sunday  morning  breakfast. 

Tom  made  broad  jokes  about  some  people's  luck 
and  "turning  new  leaves."  He  kept  appealing  for  cor- 
roboration  to  Tommykins  and  going  into  spasms  of 
laughter  at  his  son's  stare.  He  wanted  to  know 
whether  Jean  would  be  able  to  stand  the  family  now 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  91 

that  she  was  going  to  marry  a  highbrow  and  whether 
she  and  Herrick  talked  in  prose  or  blank  verse.  He 
tried  with  genuine  kindness  and  unfathomable  stu 
pidity  to  fill  the  silences  that  settled  more  and  more 
heavily  as  breakfast  drew  to  a  close. 

As  soon  as  it  was  over  and  the  things  cleared  away, 
Martha  went  upstairs  for  her  Sunday  rest.  With  all 
her  -heart  Jean  wished  that  she  had  not  told  Herrick 
not  to  come.  She  had  meant  to  give  this  Sunday  en 
tirely  to  her  mother,  even  to  go  to  afternoon  service 
with  her.  She  had  known  that  her  marriage  would  be 
a  blow  and  had  sincerely  wanted  to  ease  it  as  much  as 
possible.  But  Martha's  reception  of  the  news  had 
frozen  the  suggestion  on  her  lips.  Now  Jean  faced 
a  hot  afternoon  alone.  Upstairs  Elsie  scolded  at  Tom- 
mykins  who  refused  to  be  dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes 
and  the  new  baby  helped  her  brother's  efforts  by  wail 
ing  at  the  top  of  her  lungs.  From  the  hammock  un 
der  the  pine,  where  he  was  trying  to  read  the  papers, 
Tom  called  rough  directions  for  managing  the  chil 
dren  and  finally  banged  into  the  house  to  see  that  they 
were  executed. 

Jean  put  on  her  hat,  took  some  paper  on  which  to 
write  to  Pat  and  left  the  house.  In  the  canyon  back 
of  the  college  grounds  it  was  cool,  and  Jean  lay  on 
her  back  in  a  tangle  of  green,  her  hands  clasped  under 
her  head,  and  wondered  just  where  she  would  begin. 
She  had  so  much  to  say,  and  yet  when  she  focused 
it  all,  it  came  simply  to  this: 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Franklin  Herrick  whom  I 
mentioned  to  you  once.  I  have  known  him  less  than 
six  months  and  will  be  married  in  three  weeks." 

Put  that  way,  it  sounded  unreal,  and  she  could 
hardly  believe  it  herself.  She  said  it  aloud  and  still 
it  seemed  strange,  as  if  she  were  speaking  of  some  one 
else,  not  of  herself.  She  wondered  whether  all  women 
felt  that  way,  and  whether  her  mother  had  felt  like 


92  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

that  when  she  had  married  her  father.  What  had 
her  mother  felt?  Looking  back,  Jean  wondered. 

What  had  been  the  relationship  between  her  father 
and  mother?  Certainly  there  had  been  no  feeling  of 
nearness  between  them,  none  of  that  spiritual  contact 
so  strong  between  herself  and  Herrick ;  that  thing  that 
made  long  hours  of  silence  closer  than  words;  that 
sense  of  knowing  what  he  felt. 

Jean  thought  of  the  first  time  Herrick  had  kissed 
her  in  the  spicy  darkness  of  the  acacia  and  of  the 
physical  repulsion  that  had  frightened  her.  And  of 
the  other  night,  when  he  had  pleaded,  "A  real  one, 
Jeany,"  and  she  had  wondered  what  he  meant. 

How  had  her  mother  felt  the  first  time  her  father  had 
kissed  her?  Had  she  known  what  a  "real  kiss"  was? 
When  she  thought  about  it  directly,  as  she  was  doing 
now,  she  had  no  memories  of  her  father's  kissing  her 
mother,  or  of  their  ever  sitting  hand  in  hand  as  she 
and  Herrick  sat  often,  watching  the  sun  drop  into  the 
sea.  She  seemed  to  have  no  special  memories  of  them 
together  at  all. 

Suddenly  Jean  sat  up.  She  had  one.  It  came  to 
her  with  the  clarity  of  a  photograph.  She  could  see 
the  streak  of  sunlight  across  the  bare,  scrubbed  floor, 
the  brightly  polished  stove,  the  box  of  geraniums  in 
the  window.  She  could  smell  the  clean  smell  of  the 
place  and  feel  again  the  stillness. 

It  had  been  a  Sunday,  a  warm,  blue  day,  like  to 
day.  All  afternoon  she  had  been  in  the  garden  trying 
to  amuse  herself  and  not  succeeding.  She  could  recall, 
so  sharply  that  it  made  her  smile,  the  desperate  effort, 
and  her  final  relinquishment  of  it.  It  was  so  useless 
to  battle  against  Sunday.  Besides  the  monotony  of 
her  own  home,  Jean  had  always  felt  the  burden  of  the 
whole  world,  locked  into  the  petrifying  inaction  of  the 
Blessed  Sabbath,  and  struggling  to  rest  and  enjoy 
it  therein.  This  particular  Sunday  had  been  almost 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  93 

paralyzing  in  its  peace,  and  Jean  could  see  herself,  a 
small  figure  in  a  checked  dress  and  pebble-goat  shoes, 
come  shuffling  along  the  gravel  walk,  scuffing  her  toes 
because  she  had  always  been  told  not  to.  But  the 
unusual  sound,  at  that  hour  in  the  afternoon,  of  her 
father's  voice  in  the  kitchen,  stopped  her  at  the  door, 
and  she  stood  peering  through  the  wire  screening.  She 
saw  her  father  come  slowly  across,  to  her  mother,  who 
stood  shrinking  between  the  table  and  the  sink.  For 
months  after  that,  Jean  had  smelled  the  dust  in  the 
screen  and  felt  the  rusty  wire  pressing  the  tip  of  her 
nose,  whenever  she  thought  of  it.  Her  father  had  come 
close  to  her  mother  and  stopped.  His  face  was  white 
and  his  lips  trembled  and  Jean  had  been  afraid  he  was 
going  to  cry. 

"Marty,  can't  you  forgive?  Aren't  you  human  at 
all?" 

The  words  had  bitten  into  Jean's  memory  because 
it  was  her  father  who  was  saying  them  in  a  queer  voice 
and  with  a  strange  white  face.  Then  he  had  come 
closer  and  tried  to  put  his  arms  about  her  mother, 
but  she  had  shrunk  back  with  a  sob  that  brought  Jean 
at  a  bound  into  the  kitchen.  Her  father's  arms  had 
dropped  to  his  sides.  The  blood  rushed  into  his  face 
and  for  a  moment  he  had  stood  with  his  mouth  open. 
Then  with  a  shrug  he  turned  away  and  said  in  his 
natural  voice: 

"You'd  better  ask  that  God  of  yours  for  a  little 
common  sense." 

At  that  Martha  had  unclasped  Jean's  protecting 
arms  and  gone  quietly  out  of  the  room.  A  few  mo 
ments  later  Jean  heard  the  front  door  slam.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  her  father  did  not  come  back  to 
supper.  But,  mixed  with  the  tragedy  of  her  mother's 
red  eyelids  and  the  silent  supper,  was  a  tingling  excite 
ment  that  something  had  happened  on  Sunday.  It 
gave  an  elasticity  to  the  rigid  Sunday  routine  that  for 


94,  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

months  had  filled  Jean  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  possi 
bility. 

Shortly  after  that  her  father  had  died.  Strange 
relatives  had  appeared  with  an  extraordinary  attitude 
toward  her  mother,  as  if  Martha  had  suddenly  become 
unable  to  think  for  herself.  They  had  bustled  about 
whispering,  and  had  tried  to  take  direction  of  the 
funeral.  But  their  efforts  fell  useless  before  Martha's 
quiet  determination.  A  step-brother  of  the  dead  man's 
had  become  rather  violent  in  his  objection  to  a  church- 
service.  But  the  long  brown  coffin  had  been  carried 
into  the  church  nevertheless,  and  the  priest  had  in 
toned  the  mass  and  incensed  the  coffin  in  spicy  smoke 
that  had  made  Jean  cough.  And  afterwards,  she  and 
her  mother  had  stood  at  the  open  grave,  and  when 
the  priest  said,  "Dust  to  dust,"  and  all  the  relatives 
Jean  had  never  before  seen  sniveled  or  sobbed  openly, 
Martha  had  held  her  hand  tightly  and  Jean  had  heard 
her  whisper,  "Father,  forgive." 

For  a  year  Jean  and  her  mother  had  gone  early 
every  Sunday  morning  to  church  and  Jean  had  prayed 
fervently  that  her  father  be  forgiven.  For  what,  ex 
actly,  she  did  not  know,  but  she  remembered  now  that 
she  had  linked  it  up  to  the  Sunday  that  her  mother 
had  cried  and  her  father  had  not  come  home  to  sup 
per;  and  that  she  had  not  felt  quite  honest  praying 
for  her  father  to  be  forgiven.  Living,  he  had  never 
said  a  prayer  nor  gone  to  church  with  them.  But 
dead,  they  had  him  at  their  mercy. 

What  had  he  done?  Why  had  they  prayed  so  earn 
estly  that  he  be  forgiven?  Why  did  these  two  mem 
ories  alone  frame  her  father,  when  she  tried  to  think 
what  life  had  been  to  him  and  to  her  mother?  What 
difference  would  it  have  made  in  her  own  life  if  there 
had  been  other  memories? 

In  the  quiet  warmth  of  the  brush,  Jean  shivered. 
It  was  wrong,  wicked  to  bring1  children  up  like  that. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  95 

What  did  it  matter  that  she  had  always  had  enough 
to  eat  and  to  wear  and  had  gone  to  school,  when  the 
deepest  memory  she  had  of  her  parents  was  her 
mother  shrinking  from  her  father's  touch,  and  the 
long  brown  coffin  in  the  church  to  which  her  father 
had  never  gone  of  his  own  will.  It  seemed  to  Jean 
that  she  had  been  cheated  and  deprived  of  something 
that  could  never  now  be  hers. 

She  pushed  the  hair  back  from  her  eyes. 

"If  I  ever  have  children " 

Jean  stopped.  She  could  feel  the  blood  creep  up 
from  her  toes,  scorching  her.  If  she  had  a  child  it 
would  be  Herrick's.  It  might  have  Herrick's  changing 
eyes  and  soft,  full  lips  and  the  high,  thin  laugh.  Jean 
had  not  thought  of  Herrick's  thin  voice  for  months. 

She  jumped  up.  She  did  not  want  children.  She 
wanted  to  do  her  work  in  the  world,  and  to  help  Her- 
rick  do  his.  There  were  too  many  people  in  the  world 
already.  She  thought  of  Dr.  Mary  and  the  problems 
she  struggled  with,  of  Carmen  and  the  puny,  blind 
baby. 

As  Jean  came  into  the  kitchen  Martha  was  getting 
supper.  She  looked  rested  and  Jean  knew  that  she 
had  been  praying.  Jean's  anger  of  the  morning  was 
gone,  and  as  she  looked  at  the  small  figure  moving 
quickly  about,  rather  envied  her.  Had  there  ever  been 
an  emotional  crisis  in  her  mother's  life  that  had  not 
been  eased  by  preparing  food  for  some  one? 

"Mummy,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "do  you  remember 
once  my  coming  into  the  kitchen,  when  we  lived  in  the 
old  Webster  Street  house,  one  Sunday  and  finding 
father  trying  to  put  his  arms  round  you  and — you 
wouldn't  let  him?" 

As  Jean  asked  it,  she  turned  to  take  an  apron  from 
its  peg  and  stood  so,  for  her  mother  had  stopped  in 
the  act  of  lighting  the  gas  stove,  let  the  match  burn  to 
her  finger-tips,  scorch  them,  and  go  out. 


96  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

<cYes — I  remember,"  Martha  answered  after  a  long 
pause. 

Jean  waited. 

"I  think,  dear,  I'll  warm  the  cold  meat  with  a  brown 
gravy.  It  makes  it  go  farther." 

And  Martha  Norris  lit  another  match. 

Three  weeks  later  Jean  and  Herrick  were  married. 
They  were  married  in  church  to  please  Martha  and 
for  the  same  reason  made  a  pretense  of  eating  after 
wards  the  elaborate  meal  she  had  prepared.  Tom 
was  heavier  and  cruder  than  ever  and  Elsie  more  vapid. 
The  new  baby  cried  incessantly  and  Tommykins  took 
occasion  to  outdo  himself  as  a  general  nuisance.  Jean 
was  thoroughly  glad  that  Pat  had  not  been  able  to 
come,  and  always  remembered  her  wedding  dinner  as 
the  worst  meal  through  which  she  had  ever  sat. 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

FROM  the  chaos  of  chance  emotions,  pleasure 
snatched  at  random,  Herrick  settled  down  into 
the  calm  order  of  a  life  directed  by  a  fixed  purpose. 
He  was  going  to  write  the  novel.  It  was  all  mapped 
out.  He  and  Jean  had  settled  it  through  the  long, 
peaceful  afternoons  of  their  two-weeks'  honeymoon  at 
the  Portuguese  ranch  in  the  Marin  Hills.  Spurred  by 
Jean's  interest,  Herrick  had  seen  the  thing  clearly  and 
they  had  worked  up  an  excitement  about  it  that  had 
given  Herrick  an  exquisite  sense  of  power,  youth, 
achievement.  Her  belief  filled  him  with  the  convic 
tion  that  it  was  all  he  had  ever  needed. 

The  cool  little  kiss  that  had  so  disappointed  Her 
rick  on  the  night  he  had  asked  Jean  to  marry  him, 
delighted  him  now  that  he  realized  the  almost  in 
credible  depths  of  Jean's  shy  purity  and  ignorance. 
She  was  like  no  woman  he  had  ever  known.  Herrick 
was  surprised  at  himself  and  grateful  to  Jean  for  this 
surprise.  The  most  precious  thing,  in  Herrick's  scheme 
of  life,  was  a  new  sensation  and  that  he  now  had. 

For  the  present  he  was  content  to  have  Jean's  eyee 
light  as  he  worked  out  some  intricate  detail  of  his 
hero's  life,  or  spoke  with  firm  purpose  of  the  thing 
he  meant  to  do  next,  as  soon  as  this  one  "that  had 
haunted  him  for  years"  was  out  of  the  way.  The  breath 
less  way  she  would  say:  "That's  great.  Now  go  and 
get  it  down  before  you  forget  it,"  made  him  want  to 
take  her  in  his  arms  and  crush  her  until  he  hurt  even 
her  strong  body.  But  deeper  than  the  delight  of  doing 
it,  was  the  sensuous  delight  in  his  own  restraint.  He 

97 


98  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

asked  none  of  the  passionate  response  of  other  women. 
This  almost  frightened  surrender  was  enough.  The 
other  would  come,  and  of  its  own  accord.  The  light  in 
Jean's  eyes  and  the  quick  catch  that  came  into  her  voice 
when  they  talked  of  the  full  years  ahead,  was  a  promise. 
No  fire  could  burn  on  the  surface  like  that.  Secure 
in  his  untried  strength,  Herrick  was  very  gentle  and 
tender.  He  was  going  to  write  many  fine  books  and 
he  was  going  to  tend  that  spark  in  the  calm  gray  eyes 
of  his  wife  until  it  blazed  at  his  will. 

Watching  him,  Jean  was  happy  too.  She  had  justi 
fied  her  own  faith.  Looking  back  after  almost  two 
months'  of  marriage,  Jean  saw  what  a  blind  faith  it 
had  been.  She  had  known  nothing  whatever  of  him. 
She  had  found  him  among  people  she  despised.  Her 
mother  had  mistrusted.  She  remembered  the  Sunday 
she  had  sat  under  the  scrub  oak  and  recalled  her 
mother  shrinking  from  her  father's  touch,  and  farther 
back  than  that  the  hot  shame  that  had  held  her  at 
the  hungry  groping  of  Herrick's  first  kiss.  There  was 
nothing  of  that  in  his  touch  now.  He  liked  to  draw 
her  to  the  arm  of  his  chair  as  she  passed  and  rub  his 
cheek  softly  against  her  shoulder,  and  when  he  kissed 
her  Jean  always  felt  that  it  was  somehow  a  little  rite 
that  something  very  pure  and  deep  in  him  was  offering 
to  her. 

Jean  had  not  given  up  her  work  on  the  paper,  be 
cause  she  did  not  wish  to  be  a  dead  weight  on  Herrick 
and  had  definite  ideas  about  the  economic  independence 
of  women,  and  because  she  knew  that  housekeeping,  as 
she  and  Herrick  were  content  to  live,  would  take  up 
very  little  of  her  time.  They  had  made  few  changes 
in  the  studio  except  to  transform  a  rubbish  closet  into 
a  kitchenette  and  to  make  an  extra  bedroom  of  the 
storeroom  at  the  end.  Otherwise  it  was  as  bare  and 
"monk-like"  as  in  the  days  when  Herrick  had  lived 
alone.  Shortly  after  they  were  married,  Jean  had  told 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  99 

him  how  like  a  monk's  cell  she  had  thought  it,  the 
night  they  wrote  her  first  interview.  Herrick  had 
laughed,  but  suddenly  his  eyes  had  misted  and  he  had 
drawn  Jean  close  and  held  her  so  for  a  moment. 

Martha  Norris  disliked  the  studio  almost  as  much 
as  she  did  the  haphazard  order  of  their  lives,  and 
for  this  she  blamed  Jean.  Deep  in  her  heart  she  liked 
Herrick  no  better  than  she  ever  had,  nor  could  she 
yet  see  the  Divine  purpose  in  making  him  Jean's  hus 
band.  But,  since  he  was  her  husband,  it  was  Jean's 
duty  to  weave  about  him  those  iron  bands  that  Martha 
called  "making  a  home."  Instead,  more  than  half  the 
time  they  ate  in  restaurants.  Jean  called  at  the  office 
for  Herrick,  or  they  met  somewhere  and  ate  strange 
food  in  not  overclean  places.  Once  in  a  while  they 
brought  chops  or  steaks  in  with  them  and  fried  these 
over  the  gas.  Martha  made  many  indirect  inquiries, 
but  she  never  heard  of  a  meal  that  took  more  than 
fifteen  minutes  to  cook.  To  buy  cheap  underclothes 
and  throw  them  away  when  they  wore  out,  as  Jean 
now  did,  as  well  as  Herrick,  savored  to  Martha  of 
license.  It  reached  beyond  economics  and  touched 
morality.  It  was  not  far  removed  from  their  decision 
not  to  have  children.  On  this  subject  Martha  and 
Jean  had  talked  only  once,  but  Martha  had  prayed 
half  the  night  about  it. 

The  whole  manner  of  this  life  was  hectic  and  a  lit 
tle  illicit,  but  she  made  no  comment.  In  the  hours 
of  lonely  agony  that  she  had  spent  on  Jean's  wed 
ding  day,  she  had  laid  out  her  plan,  and  even  finding 
that  it  was  the  worst  possible  would  not  have  swerved 
her  a  hair's  breadth  from  it.  Nothing  should  ever 
come  between  her  and  Jean.  She  would  accept  Her 
rick  and  try  to  like  him,  and  this  she  did  to  the  best 
of  her  ability.  She  listened  with  interest  when  Jean 
told  her  of  the  work  Herrick  was  planning  to  do,  and 
cooked  all  day  Saturday  getting  the  dinners  she  served 


100          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

with  so  little  apparent  effort  every  fourth  Sunday. 
Jean  understood  and  was  filled  with  a  softer  love  and 
truer  sympathy  for  her  mother  than  the  other  guessed. 

Martha  only  knew  that,  as  weeks  slipped  by,  this 
marriage  of  Jean's  was  not  weaning  her  big  daughter 
away  as  she  had  expected  and  feared  so  terribly.  On 
the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  draw  them  more  closely 
together  in  many  ways.  .  Jean  often  stole  an  hour 
from  work  and  dropped  in  unexpectedly.  Then  they 
had  tea,  and  if  there  were  any  of  the  little  tea  cakes 
that  Jean  loved,  she  always  took  some  home  for  Her- 
rick. 

As  for  The  Bunch,  they  seemed  to  have  passed  quite 
out  of  Jean's  life.  Sometimes  she  met  one  of  them 
by  accident,  and  twice  she  and  Herrick  had  gone,  at 
Flop's  insistence,  to  an  extra  "blow-out."  But  Her 
rick  had  been  as  bored  as  she,  and  they  had  not  gone 
again. 

When  they  had  been  married  a  little  over  three 
months,  Herrick  began  the  novel.  It  was  to  be  the 
life  story  of  a  man  who  had  beaten  his  way  up  from 
just  such  beginnings  as  Herri ck's,  and  who  finally 
achieved  fame  and  fortune  as  a  great  engineer.  The 
man's  name  was  Robert,  and  Jean  and  Herrick  spoke 
of  him  as  of  some  one  who  lived  with  them. 

Every  night  they  hurried  back  from  dinner  to  "keep 
the  appointment  with  Robert."  From  eight  until  ten 
Herrick  wrote.  He  insisted  that  he  could  not  write 
a  line  unless  Jean  was  curled  up  in  her  favorite  place 
on  the  couch.  From  time  to  time  he  would  stop,  and 
as  soon  as  she  became  conscious  that  the  machine  was 
no  longer  clicking,  Jean  would  look  up  and  smile. 
Herrick  liked  to  make  Jean  look  up  and  smile. 

Watching  Herrick  at  work  evening  after  evening, 
Jean  felt  that  life  was  a  very  simple  matter  if  one 
used  one's  common  sense  and  went  straight  ahead  do 
ing  the  thing  that  was  best  and  right.  If  people 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          101 

spoiled  their  lives  and  got  less  than  they  might  have 
had,  it  was  because  they  were  either  like  The  Bunch, 
grabbing  feverishly  at  every  passing  illusion,  afraid 
that  they  might  miss  something;  or  else  they  were  like 
Martha,  refusing  and  denying,  which,  after  all,  was 
only  another  kind  of  fear.  In  these  days  of  greater 
nearness  to  her  mother,  Jean  sometimes  wondered 
whether  Martha  had  not  really  wanted  happiness  so 
much  that  she  had  been  afraid  to  take  it. 

Jean  spent  many  happy  hours  listening  to  the  click 
of  Herrick's  machine  and  laying  down  the  laws  of 
life.  Fear  was  the  thing  to  be  afraid  of.  She  was 
very  clear  and  definite  in  her  own  mind  about  this. 
Fear  was  the  great  paralysis.  But  there  was  no  need 
for  any  one  to  be  paralyzed  unless  he  wanted  to  be. 
Of  these  speculations  and  certainties  she  wrote  to  Pat, 
and  Pat  wrote  back  asking  the  color  of  Herrick's  eyes 
and  saying  she  was  too  busy  to  philosophize  about  fear 
or  anything  else  and  would  "save  all  that"  until  she 
saw  Jean,  if  that  happy  day  ever  came,  now  that  Jean 
was  so  busy  leading  her  double  life.  Pat  always  in 
sisted  on  referring  to  Jean's  newspaper  work  as  one 
life  and  her  "man  job"  as  another  life. 

Herrick  liked  this  and  used  to  stop  work  sometimes 
to  come  and  sit  close  to  Jean  on  the  couch  and  de 
mand: 

"Am  I  your  'man  job,'  Jean?" 

When  Jean  said  he  was,  Herrick  insisted  that  she 
put  the  stamp  of  her  workmanship  on  it,  which  meant 
that  Jean  was  to  kiss  him.  When  she  had  kissed  him 
he  would  go  back  to  the  machine  and  work  steadily. 
He  was  always  making  up  little  games  like  that,  and 
after  Jean  had  gotten  over  the  first  sense  of  foolish 
ness,  she  had  come  to  like  them. 

Jean  was  quite  honest  with  herself  and  with  Her 
rick  when  she  said  that  he  was  her  real  work.  She  had 
no  delusions  about  the  newspaper.  It  was  much  better 


102          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

than  "the  -library  -and  infinitely  better  than  teaching, 
but  she  was  not  a  born  newspaper  woman.  She  had 
not  again  found  a  Dr.  Mary  or  any  one  who  ap 
proached  her.  It  was  only  because  her  personal  life 
was  full  in  those  first  months  that  some  of  the  interest 
overflowed  into  her  routine,  and  Jean  was  able  to  inter 
view  dull  people  and  whip  their  mediocre  purpose  into 
some  kind  of  life.  The  atmosphere  of  the  office  she 
loathed,  with  its  terrific  rush  and  confusion,  and  was 
never  able  to  work  up  a  proper  respect  for  the  wonder 
ful  concentration  of  Mr.  Thompson. 

She  often  thought  of  Dr.  Mary  and  her  promise 
to  go  to  the  Hill  House.  Twice  she  asked  Herrick 
to  go  with  her  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  but  Herrick 
had  begged  off. 

"We  work  hard  all  the  week,  Jeany,  and  taking  tea 
and  settling  the  affairs  of  nations  strikes  me  as  too 
strenuous  for  our  one  day  of  rest.  And,  besides,  I  want 
you  all  to  myself." 

Jean  was  disappointed  but  said  nothing.  She 
decided  to  go  and  see  the  little  doctor  the  first  chance 
she  had.  But,  somehow,  the  chance  did  not  come,  and 
finally,  when  six  months  had  gone  by,  she  was  ashamed 
to  go. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

IN  the  middle  of  November,  Herrick  struck  a  snag- 
in  his  work.  The  first  five  chapters  had  gone 
well.  He  had  brought  Robert  up  from  the  farm,  taken 
him  through  college  and  plunged  him  into  a  big  min 
ing  scheme  in  South  America.  He  had  drawn  well  the 
narrowness  of  Robert's  home  and  the  longing  for  op 
portunity. 

But  now  Robert  balked.  He  sat  down  in  the  Bra 
zilian  jungle  to  which  Herrick  had  led  him  and  refused 
to  move.  Hour  after  hour  Herrick  struggled  and 
honestly  tried  to  wake  him  from  the  permanent  sleep 
into  which  he  had  fallen  without  warning.  But  Rob 
ert  would  not  wake.  Herrick's  nerves  tightened.  He 
wanted  and  did  not  want  to  consult  Jean.  He  had 
never  asked  her  advice  about  the  psychology  of  his 
people,  only  about  the  arrangement  of  incidents,  or 
the  vividness  with  which  he  had  succeeded  in  portray 
ing  them.  To  ask  help  in  this  was  a  confession  of  his 
inability  and  Herrick's  vanity  refused. 

And  deep  in  Herrick's  consciousness,  beyond  the 
point  of  self-acknowledgment,  was  the  fear  that  Rob 
ert  was  not  asleep.  Robert  was  dead,  dead  beyond 
the  power  of  revivifying.  Until  now  Robert's  reactions 
had  been  Herrick's  own.  But  from  now  on  Robert 
must  be  himself,  and  Herrick  could  not  flesh  the  skele 
ton  of  this  strenuous  young  engineer,  toiling  away 
alone  in  his  jungle,  with  no  nearer  stimulus  than  a 
board  of  directors  fifteen  thousand  miles  away. 

Evening  after  evening  Herrick  sat  at  the  machine 
and  covered  pages  with  useless  words.  His  fingers 

103 


104          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

moved  mechanically,  although  he  tried  to  focus  his  at 
tention  on  Robert.  But  the  thoughts  running  at  the 
back  of  his  brain  pushed  Robert  further  and  further 
beyond  the  border  of  his  interest,  and,  finally,  one 
evening  in  the  middle  of  November,  Robert  dropped 
over  the  horizon  altogether  and  Herrick  knew  that 
he  had  finished  with  him  forever.  His  fingers  lay 
idle  on  the  keys  and  he  stared  into  space. 

In  the  dressing-room  Jean  was  changing  into  a 
house-dress.  Herrick  did  not  like  her  to  curl  up  on 
the  couch  in  her  working  clothes  and  she  always 
changed  to  please  him.  In  a  few  moments  she  would 
come  through  the  door  quietly,  take  a  book  and  make 
herself  comfortable  among  the  pillows.  She  had  done 
this  for  four  months  now.  Every  evening  they  had  sat 
so,  Jean  beyond  touch  across  the  room,  but  where  he 
could  look  up  and  see  her.  Every  evening  for  four 
months  he  had  sat  almost  the  whole  distance  of  the 
room  away  from  this  big,  calm,  gray-eyed  woman. 
Herrick  smiled.  Soon  the  real  winter  would  set  in. 
The  rain  would  beat  on  the  attic  roof  and  the  wood- 
fire  crackle  in  the  grate.  There  would  be  long  Sun 
days  impossible  out  of  doors.  Would  Jean  expect 
him  to  sit  through  these  too,  driving  that  mummy  for 
ward  in  his  senseless  progress?  Herrick's  smile  deep 
ened. 

Coming  through  the  door,  Jean  caught  the  smile, 
and  answered  it.  Then,  passing  the  work-table  with 
out  speaking,  she  took  a  book  and  dropped  among  the 
pillows.  It  was  Hunter's  "Poverty."  She  did  not 
open  it  immediately,  but  lay  back  against  the  cushions 
and  closed  her  eyes,  stretching  her  arms  above  her 
head  in  a  way  she  had  when  she  was  tired.  Completely 
relaxed  she  lay  there,  her  throat  and  bare  arms  white 
on  the  dark  blue  background  of  the  cushions.  The 
smile  withered  on  Herrick's  face,  and  his  fingers  closed 
tightly,  but  he  did  not  move.  At  last  Jean  drew  a 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          105 

long  breath  that  swelled  the  deep  breast,  stretched, 
and  reached  for  her  book.  Herrick  rose,  ripped  the 
paper  from  the  machine,  tore  it  into  fragments  and 
threw  them  in  the  waste-basket.  Then  he  covered  the 
typewriter  and  came  towards  the  couch.  Jean  sat  up. 

"Why,  Begee,  what's  the  matter?" 

It  was  the  name  that  they  had  evolved  from  one 
of  Herrick's  little  games.  It  stood  for  a  contraction 
of  baby  and  genius.  Jean  had  hit  on  it  accidentally 
and  Herrick  had  insisted  on  keeping.it. 

He  came  over  to  the  couch  and  sat  down.  He  did 
not  sit  very  near  Jean,  because  in  a  little  while  Jean 
was  going  to  move  of  her  own  accord.  Now  that  he 
had  so  suddenly  murdered  his  pretense  he  knew  exactly 
what  he  wanted. 

"Jean,  we're  all  wrong  about  Robert.  He  isn't  a 
man  at  all.  He's  a  machine." 

Jean  laughed.  "He  is  not.  He's  nothing  of  the 
kind.  He's  not  the  least  bit  mechanical.  You've 
fleshed  and  blooded  him  beautifully." 

"Maybe  I  have  since  I've  given  him  my  own.  But 
he's  an  ass,  just  the  same." 

"He  isn't  and  I  won't  have  you  abuse  him.  He's  a 
real  man  and  a  particular  friend  of  mine." 

"Well,  I  can't  say  much  for  your  taste,  then.  I'd 
like  to  punch  his  head.  He'd  bore  me  to  death  in  ten 
minutes.  Maybe,  if  you're  so  keen  about  him,  you'll 
accompany  him  on  that  neat  little  stunt  he's  about  to 
pull  off.  /  have  no  desire  to  go  to  Peru  with  the 
creature." 

"I'd  love  to,  but  you  know  perfectly  well  that  I  can't 
put  a  thing  together  except  the  ambitions  of  ladies  who 
rescue  cats.  Getting  Robert  through  the  next  six 
months  of  his  life  wouldn't  bore  me.  It  would  over 
whelm  me." 

"It'll  swamp  me— if  I  try." 

"Begee  \" 


106         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Absolutely.  He's  behaved  pretty  well  up  to  now 
because  I  understand  him.  But  I  don't  understand 
how  it  feels  to  tramp  through  a  jungle  with  nobody 
but  natives  you  can't  talk  to,  and  sit  all  alone  in  a  tent, 
through  wonderful  moonlight  nights,  smoking  pipes  and 
being  happy.  I  never  sat  alone  in  a  tent  under  tropic 
moonlight  and  I  don't  want  to,  with  nothing  but  a 
pipe.  I'd  go  raving  mad." 

"Nonsense.  If  you'd  wanted  to  build  bridges  in 
stead  of  write  novels,  you'd  have  done  just  the  same." 

"But  I  didn't  want  to  build  bridges.  What's  the 
good  of  them  anyhow,  messing  up  a  perfectly  good 
jungle?  It's  a  fool  point  of  view,  that  everlasting 
conquering  difficulties  and  improving  things." 

"You  know  you  don't  mean  that."  Jean  was  looking 
at  him  now,  with  the  smile  gone  from  her  eyes.  No 
more  than  Martha  did  she  like  to  hear  the  things  she 
cared  for  derided.  Instantly  Herrick  saw  that  he  had 
gone  too  quickly  to  his  goal. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Jeany,  if  we  get  that  bridge  built 
we'll  have  to  give  Robert  some  incentive.  We'll  let 
him  meet  Dora  before  he  does  it  instead  of  after.  It'll 
make  her  better,  too,  eliminate  any  possibility  of  her 
loving  him  for  anything  but  himself.  How  does  that 
strike  you?  She  can't  fall  in  love  with  his  achieve 
ments,  if  he  hasn't  any." 

"But  that  isn't  the  way  we've  mapped  it  out.  Rob 
ert  was  going  to  get  it  all  done  and  offer  it  to  her. 
It's  just  what  he  would  do.  If  you  go  and  change 
it  round  you  make  him  another  kind  of  man.  Maybe 

that  other  kind  of  man  wouldn't  get  the  bridge " 

Jean  broke  off  suddenly. 

"The  bridge  built  at  all.  Is  that  what  you  mean?" 
Herrick  finished  for  her. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  do.  You  see "  Jean  frowned 

in  her  effort  to  get  exactly  the  right  words.  It  seemed 
somehow  very  important  that  she  should  get  them  just 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          107 

right.  "The  way  we  have  it  fixed  now,  Robert  is  one 
kind  of  man  and  Dora  is  one  kind  of  girl,  and  they're 
going  to  be  awfully  happy.  But  if  you  change  him  she 
wouldn't  be  happy  with  that  kind  of  man.  He'd  be 
just  the  kind  that  would  want  to  trail  her  through 
the  jungle  after  him.  You  will  have  to  change  her, 
too." 

"Rubbish,  Jean.  That's  the  psychology  of  a  girl  of 
sixteen.  Do  you  suppose  love  depends  on  whether  a 
man  builds  a  bridge  or  not?" 

"That  isn't  the  point,  Begee,  and  it's  not  the  same 
thing  at  all.  Whether  he  built  the  bridge  or  not,  under 
those  difficult  conditions,  depends  on  the  man  he  is." 

"Oh,  Jean,  you're  a  baby.  Carrying  out  that  logic 
then,  if  /  never  finish  the  novel,  I  am  another  man. 
And  you'll  have  to  get  made  all  over  yourself.  Would 
I  be  a  different  man  to  you?" 

Jean  looked  down  at  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 
Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Herrick's: 

"Yes.    You  would  be  different." 

"Why?  Why  would  not  finishing  the  novel  make 
me  any  different?" 

"Because,  if  you  had  never  wanted  to  do  it  and 
never  started,  or  couldn't  do  it,  that  would  be  dif 
ferent.  But  you  have  always  wanted  to,  for  years  and 
years  it's  been  haunting  you.  You  can  do  it  and  you 
have  started  it.  So,  if  you  stopped  now,  because 
you've  got  into  a  hard  place,  it  would  mean  that  you 
hadn't  the  grit  to  go  on.  It  would  be  just  plain  cow 
ardly.  You'll  be  afraid  of  the  pain  and  trouble  of  the 
effort." 

"Well,  what  of  that?  What's  so  specially  fine  in 
not  being  afraid  of  pain?  What's  so  horrible  in  being 
a  coward?  A  coward  is  often  a  man  who  sees  values 
more  clearly  than  the  mob.  What's  so  noble  in  beat 
ing  after  something  that  won't  make  you  any  happier 


108          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

when  you've  got  it?  That's  all  courage  is,  striving 
after  something  difficult  or  impossible  to  get." 

Herrick  came  closer  and  laid  both  hands  on  Jean's 
shoulders. 

"It's  just  a  lot  of  words,  Jean,  handed  down  till 
we  swallow  them  whole,  this  babble  about  courage  and 
strength  and  getting  the  best  of  things.  Words,  words, 
that's  all.  The  measure  of  all  this  courage  is  a  meas 
ure  of  effort,  not  of  accomplishment.  According  to 
that  theory,  a  baby  that  beats  its  head  against  a  stone 
wall  is  brave." 

Jean  sat  silent,  held  by  the  same  terrible  necessity 
of  getting  the  right  words. 

"No,  it  is  not  just  blind  fighting.  It  isn't  beating 
after  something  that  you  think's  going  to  make  you 
happy.  It's  seeing  clearly  and  not  being  afraid  of 
being  unhappy." 

"Not  being  afraid  of  being  unhappy?  What  else 
is  there  to  be  afraid  of?  What  else  matters?" 

"Being  the  best  self  you  have,  the  very,  very  best." 

"Is  it?"  His  hold  on  her  shoulders  tightened,  and 
he  said,  more  to  keep  that  look  on  her  face  than  for 
any  further  interest  he  had  in  the  subject: 

"And  this  best?  There  is  never  any  doubt  about 
it?  It  is  always  perfectly  clear  what  it  is?" 

"Of  course  it's  always  clear — if  we're  honest." 

"And  every  one  knows  what  this  wonderful  'best'  in 
himself  is  and  goes  trotting  on  alone  and  grabs  it?" 

"Extremist !  No  one  trots  right  along  and  grabs 
anything.  You  know  what  I  mean,  Begee.  Life's  like 
a  story  or  an  editorial.  You  don't  go  on  blindly  put 
ting  down  words  without  knowing  what  you're  aim 
ing  at.  You  know  the  points  you  want  to  make  and 
you  make  them.  You  have  your  climax  before  you 
begin." 

"Good  Lord!     Do  you  believe  that?" 

"Yes.     I  think  I  do.     I  know  it  sounds  terribly 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          109 

high-falutin  but  lots  of  things  do  when  you  really 
get  them  in  words.  Life  isn't  just  a  jumbled  mess. 
It  must  make  for  something.  If  it  isn't  a  road  we 
build  going  along,  what  on  earth  is  it?" 

Herrick's  hands  dropped  from  Jean's  shoulders. 

"It's  a  pendulum.  That's  all  it  is,  at  the  best. 
That's  all,  Jean.  We  swing  through  the  arc,  back 
and  forth,  from  one  higher  point  to  another  and 
through  all  the  lowest  points  between.  When  we  reach 
one  end  of  the  arc  we  are  pushed  back  and  do  it  all 
over  again,  and  after  a  while  the  arc  grows  shorter, 
and  we  hang  there  at  the  will  of — what?  Fate  or 
chance  or  our  own  limitations." 

"Oh  no,  Begee,  no.  No.  You're  tired  and  you  don't 
really  believe  it  yourself.  It's  a  corking  good  image 
and  we'll  get  it  into  the  novel  somewhere,  only  Robert 
won't  say  it.  But  as  philosophy,  it  doesn't  swing. 
I'm  not  hung  on  a  wire  by  Fate  or  anything  else  and 
when  I  get  to  the  end  of  my  arc  I  can  go  higher. 
Which  may  be  bad  mathematics  or  physics  or  what 
ever  it  is,  but  it's  good  sense  and  gets  things  done  in 
this  world." 

Jean  laughed  as  she  laid  hold  of  Herrick's  shoulders 
and  shook  him  gently. 

"It's  you  who  are  the  baby.  That's  what  you  are. 
A  baby  that  gets  a  spiritual  tummy-ache  every  time  he 
strikes  a  snag." 

Jean  was  very  near  now,  smiling  into  his  eyes,  and 
Herrick  could  feel  the  cool,  firm  strength  of  her. 

"Ami?" 

"Certainly,  not  a  doubt  of  it.  A  baby  that  can 
scarcely  walk.  But  never  mind,  when  he  gets  to  the 
end  of  his  arc,  mother'll  come  and  push  him  along. 
Mother's  a  grand  pusher  and  she  adores  it." 

"Is  she?"  Herrick's  voice  broke  and  he  groped  for 
Jean  with  trembling  hands.  "Prove  it — prove  it."  His 


110          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

breath  came  hot  against  her  cheek  as  he  seized  her  in 
his  arms  and  crushed  her  mouth  against  his. 

"Wake  up,  wake  up,"  he  panted,  and  through  the 
anger  and  nausea  that  seemed  to  be  dragging  her  out 
of  consciousness,  Jean  heard  him.  Years  afterwards 
she  could  recall  the  feel  of  each  word  as  if  it  were  a 
stone  that  was  hitting  her,  and  the  feel  of  Herrick's 
unshaven  chin  against  hers. 

With  all  her  force  she  tried  to  push  him  away.  But, 
blind  with  his  long  suppression,  Herrick  only  held  her 
closer.  Not  till  the  edge  of  his  hunger  dulled  did  his 
hold  loosen.  Taking  Jean's  chin  in  his  hand,  he  turned 
her  face  up.  Instantly  his  arms  dropped. 

For  a  moment  Herrick  refused  to  believe  the  look 
in  her  eyes.  Then  a  wave  of  anger  swept  over  him, 
flooding  his  face  and  neck  to  a  deep  red. 

"Well,  we're  married,  aren't  we?" 

"If  that's  marriage,  no."  Jean  stepped  back  out  of 
range  of  this  thing  that  had  taken  every  scrap  of  her 
self-respect  and  ripped  it  off  as  if  it  were  a  cloak,  that 
had  held  her,  against  her  will,  at  its  own  pleasure. 
"Don't  you  ever  kiss  me  like  that  again — ever.  Do 
you  hear?" 

Herrick  said  nothing.  He  went  over  to  the  window 
and  leaned  his  forehead  on  the  cold  glass.  He  had 
acted  like  a  brute,  but  it  didn't  matter.  Nothing  mat 
tered.  He  had  shocked  Jean,  but  that  didn't  matter, 
either.  It  didn't  matter  whether  she  was  shocked  or 
needed  shocking  or  didn't  need  it.  Nothing  in  the 
whole  world  mattered  at  all. 

Slowly  Jean  came  and  stood  beside  him. 

"Please,  Franklin,"  she  said  in  a  low  hurried  tone, 
"don't  kiss  me  like  that  ever  again.  I  hate  it." 

"All  right."  Herrick  spoke  from  his  folded  arms 
without  looking  up. 

Jean  stood  where  she  was  for  a  moment  and  then 
went  back  to  the  couch.  She  took  up  her  book  and 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          111 

tried  to  read,  but  the  words  made  no  sense.  Herrick 
still  stood  at  the  window  and  the  typewriter  was  cov 
ered  on  the  desk. 

It  was  as  if  a  murder  had  been  committed  in  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

LATE  in  December  the  rains  set  in.      Heavy  gray 
clouds  hung  low  over  the  city's  hills,  pressing  all 
the  joy  and  color  from  life,  flattening  the  world  to  a 
monotone  of  black  umbrellas. 

At  New  Year  there  was  an  interval  of  pleasant 
weather  and  then  more  rain,  steady,  deliberate,  endless 
rain.  The  street  cars  were  crowded  with  damp  people, 
all  trying  to  keep  as  far  as  possible  from  each  other, 
all  peevish  and  nervous  under  the  strain.  Gutters 
broke  and  streams  of  water  ran  everywhere.  The 
streets  were  rivers  of  thick,  black  mud  and  buildings 
reeked  with  the  odor  of  woolen  clothing  drying  in  steam 
heat.  From  the  middle  of  January  to  the  middle  of 
February  the  world  woke  in  the  morning  to  rain  and 
went  to  bed  at  night  with  the  rain  steadily  pouring  in 
long,  gray  lines  from  the  leaden  sky. 

Against  the  background  of  the  rain,  Jean's  days 
ran  together  in  a  blur.  She  created  a  false  enthusiasm 
and,  under  this  self-imposed  stimulus,  got  so  many 
words  on  paper.  Sometimes  she  wondered  how  long 
she  would  be  able  to  keep  it  up.  She  thought  now 
more  and  more  often  of  Pat  steadily  plodding  in  her 
mountain  school,  and  of  her  mother,  trotting  through 
each  day's  task,  every  crevice  of  her  life  filled  with  the 
knowledge  that  she  could  do  no  more  than  she  was 
doing,  nor  do  it  better.  Most  of  all  she  thought  of  Dr. 
Mary,  buoyant  and  vital  among  her  people,  holding 
to  her  purpose  and  working  toward  it  surely.  She 
wondered  whether  Dr.  Mary  would  remember  her  if 
she  went. 

112 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          113 

There  had  been  no  mention  at  all  of  the  night  that 
Herrick  had  stood  long  at  the  window  with  his  face 
in  his  arms.  The  thing  that  had  been  killed  had  been 
decently  buried,  so  decently  buried  that  it  might  never 
have  existed  at  all.  Herrick  worked  spasmodically  on 
a  short  story,  but  he  rarely  worked  in  the  evenings. 
They  often  went  to  the  theater,  and  at  long  intervals 
to  Flop's.  Once  Jean  had  quite  enjoyed  herself  and 
they  had  gone  again  the  following  Sunday,  but  the  out- 
of-town  visitors  had  gone  away  and  it  was  duller, 
more  noisy,  less  sincere  than  ever. 

Through  the  four  worst  Sundays  of  rain  Herrick 
wrote  and  when  he  had  finished  went  over  the  result 
with  Jean.  They  haggled  each  point  with  a  desperate 
show  of  interest.  When  Jean  said  a  scene  did  not  ring 
true,  she  explained  very  elaborately  and  carefully  and 
Herrick  listened  and  argued  and  in  the  end  usually 
agreed.  Jean  often  thought  of  Robert  as  some  one 
who  had  died  far  away  in  the  jungle. 

In  March  the  fury  of  the  rain  lessened,  wore  itself 
out  in  a  succession  of  damp,  drizzling  days  almost 
harder  to  stand  than  the  steady  downpour.  Then  the 
hills  stood  out  once  more  softly  green  and  clear  against 
the  blue  sky.  With  the  coming  of  spring,  Herrick 
gave  up  his  pretense  of  winter.  The  unfinished  short 
story  went  into  the  waste  basket.  Jean  was  glad  and 
the  tension  of  her  nerves  relaxed. 

It  was  a  lovely  day  in  May,  when  Jean's  work 
brought  her  close  to  home  about  one  o'clock  and  she 
decided  to  do  the  writing  in  the  studio  instead  of  going 
back  to  the  noisy  office.  As  she  opened  the  door  she 
pushed  back  an  envelope  of  the  gray  paper  that  Pat 
used.  Jean  pounced  on  it  and  without  waiting  to  take 
off  her  things,  tore  it  open.  There  were  only  a  few 
sentences  on  a  half  sheet: 

"Will  be  down  on  the  sixteenth. 


114          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Train  gets  in  about  three.  Don't  meet  me  or  upset 
your  day  in  any  way. 

"Leave  the  key  where  I  can  find  it.  I  like  doormats 
best." 

Pat  was  coming. 

For  the  moment  Jean  could  grasp  nothing  else. 
Pat  was  coming.  She  would  be  here  in  that  very  room. 
They  would  talk.  It  was  years  since  they  had  talked. 
No,  not  years.  Not  quite  two  yet,  since  she  and  Pat 
had  sat  together  and  swung  their  feet  from  the  sink 
board  of  the  Girls'  Rest  Hall,  and  she  had  been  almost 
hysterical  because  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  but 
teaching.  Jean's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  dabbed 
angrily  at  them. 

"You  old  fool!  What  do  you  expect?  To  feel 
the  same  always?  No  doubt  Pat  feels  older  and  has 
changed  a  lot  too." 

But  the  idea  of  Pat's  having  changed  frightened 
Jean.  Pat  must  not  have  changed.  She  must  be  just 
the  same  sane,  practical,  efficient  Pat.  She  would  be. 
And  she  was  coming,  coming  on  the  sixteenth  and  the 
sixteenth  was  to-day. 

The  next  moment  Jean  was  pounding  out  her  inter 
view  on  the  machine.  It  was  done  in  a  space  of  time 
unsurpassed  even  by  the  concentration  of  Mr.  Thomp 
son.  Jean  sent  a  messenger  with  it  to  the  office  and 
began  cleaning  the  studio.  By  half  past  two  the  place 
was  so  clean  that  Jean  could  not  find  another  thing  to 
do,  not  even  rearrange  for  the  fourth  time  a  vase  of 
roses.  She  took  a  book  to  the  window  seat  and  sat 
down. 

"Now  you  compose  your  mind  and  act  like  a  rational 
human.  She  won't  get  here  any  sooner  if  you  flutter 
about  like  a  demented  hen.  'Flutter  like  a  demented 
hen' — it  must  be  the  effect  of  Pat's  coming!" 

By  sheer  will  Jean  succeeded  in  sitting  still,  but  no 
effort  could  keep  her  attention  on  the  print.  Her 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          115 

thoughts  got  away  from  her  and  ran  back  down  the 
months,  fetching  up  in  days  she  and  Pat  had  spent  to 
gether;  in  graduation  day,  that  seemed  so  many  years 
behind  her;  and  courses  they  had  taken  together,  that 
for  some  reason  seemed  closer  now,  than  when  she  had 
taken  them. 

In  the  glow  of  Pat's  coming,  forgotten  things  be 
came  recent  and  clear,  while  recent  things  seemed  un 
real  and  far  away.  In  this  inversion,  the  past  winter, 
with  the  strained  atmosphere  between  herself  and  Her- 
rick,  blurred  into  a  memory  of  some  very  disagreable 
period  she  had  lived  through  long  ago.  Perhaps  that 
unobtrusive,  ever  present  third  presence  that  had  moved 
so  silently  between  them  through  the  long  weeks  of 
rain,  and  against  whom  she  was  ever  on  her  guard, 
was  not  so  real  as  she  had  fancied.  She  had  accepted 
the  thing  she  did  not  want  to  believe  and  believed  it 
for  fear  of  being  a  coward  in  not  facing  it. 

"I'm  an  idiot,  and  a  conceited  one  at " 

"Haven't  a  doubt  about  it,  old  girl.  Didn't  I  al 
ways  say  so?" 

Jean  tumbled  from  the  window  seat  and  Pat's  arms 
closed  about  her. 

"Oh  Pat— Pa*." 

They  stood  so  for  a  moment.  Then  they  separated, 
Pat  wiped  her  eyes  and  they  grinned  foolishly  at  each 
other. 

"I  knew  I'd  be  glad.  But  I  didn't  know  I'd  be  like 
this.  I  guess  I've  been  suppressing  all  the  way  down 
in  the  train,  in  case  you'd  changed  a  lot,  and  you 
haven't  changed  a  bit,  not  a  single  bit." 

"What  did  you  expect?  After  all  it's  only  two 
years,  even  if  it  seems  a  million." 

"I  guess  I  was  trying  to  do  one  of  mummy's  tricks, 
get  all  primed  up  just  because  I  didn't  want  to.  Jean, 
if  you  had  changed,  I'd  have  busted  on  the  spot." 

"Well,  you  can  stay  whole  then  because  I  haven't. 


116         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Now  get  off  those  things.  I  feel  as  if  you  had  dropped 
in  for  ten  minutes." 

"I  haven't,  so  get  rid  of  any  such  hopes.  I  am  going 
to  stay  a  week  or  more.  I  don't  care  whether  it's  con 
venient  or  not.  During  the  day  I  shall  be  out  on  my 
deep  and  serious  mission,  but  I  expect  the  evenings. 
Oh  Jeany,  do  tell  me  what  he's  like.  I've  been  expir 
ing  for  months.  You  never  did  describe  him  to  me,  you 
know,  and  I  was  too  delicate  to  ask.  He  might  have 
only  one  eye  or  be  bald.  Is  he?" 

"No.  He's  neither  lame,  halt  nor  blind  and  I  won't 
tell  you  a  tiling  until  you  get  those  things  off  and  I 
make  some  tea." 

When  Jean  had  drawn  the  tea  table  close  to  the 
window  that  looked  out  across  the  tops  of  the  roofs 
to  the  crown  of  the  Berkeley  Hills,  Pat  demanded: 

"Now,  go  clear  back  to  the  beginning  and  tell  me 
everything.  Your  letters  on  the  subject  were  the  most 
unsatisfactory  things  ever  penned  by  the  hand  of  man. 
Get  out  that  mental  searchlight  and  turn  on  the 
analysis.  Why  did  you  fall  in  love?  How  does  it 
feel?  Were  you  swept  off  your  feet  or  did  you  just 
get  dragged  under?  Begin." 

"I  don't  know,  Patsy.    Honestly,  I  don't  know." 

"Good  Heavens !  If  that  isn't  the  most  Jeanesque 
performance  ever!  Here  you  can  spend  years  rooting 
about  in  your  soul  for  the  whys  and  the  wherefores  of 
some  silly  thing  that  doesn't  have  a  why  or  a  wherefore, 
and  for  a  big  thing  like  getting  married,  you  don't 
know  why  you  did  it!  It  sounds  to  me  as  if  you  had 
fallen  so  head  over  heels  into  the  sea  of  love  that  you 
blinded  yourself." 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  did  that."  There  was  no 
answering  laughter  in  Jean's  eyes  and  the  twinkle 
vanished  from  Pat's.  "We  had  a  lot  in  common  and 
used  to  have  such  glorious  days  out  of  doors  together 
and  he  wanted  to  write  and  I  believed  I  could  help 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          117 

him.  He'd  always  been  alone  and  no  one  had  ever 
taken  any  interest  in  the  things  he  cared  most  deeply 
about  until  we  met,  and  it  seemed  to  me,  from  the  very 
first  moment,  as  if  I  had  known  him  always." 

"That's  a  symptom,  I've  always  heard."  Pat's  tone 
brought  Jean  from  a  path  in  which  she  seemed  to  be 
wandering  by  herself. 

"I  mean  that  I  didn't  lose  my  head  and  go  around 
raving  like  Alma  Perkins  did  when  she  was  engaged 
to  Porter.  Do  you  remember  the  spectacle  she  made 
of  herself?  Of  course,  I  loved  Franklin.  I  wouldn't 
have  married  him  if  I  hadn't,  would  I?" 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  would,"  Pat  answered, 
after  an  imperceptible  pause.  "How  did  mummy  take 
it?" 

This  time  Jean  laughed.  "Pat,  it  really  was  funny. 
Mummy  was  divided  between  being  grateful  to  Frank 
lin  for  being  a  'burden'  and  dislike  of  him  personally." 

"Doesn't  she  like  him?     Didn't  she  ever?" 

"No.  And  you  should  have  seen  the  wedding  break 
fast.  Not  even  in  the  days  when  she  wasn't  sure 
whether  you  were  *a  good  influence'  did  you  ever  in 
spire  such  food." 

"Why  didn't  she  like  him?" 

"I  don't  believe  she  really  knows.  I  was  silly  enough 
to  describe  the  first  evening  I  went  out  with  him  and 
the  people  I  met.  When  she  saw  him,  she  said  he  had 
'the  flesh  and  the  devil'  written  all  over  him.  You  know 
how  she  condemns  people  to  death  on  a  technicality?" 

"Haven't  you  got  a  picture  of  It?  I'll  die  before  I 
see  It." 

"Oh  no  you  won't.  But  I'll  'phone  in  a  few  moments 
and  tell  It  to  come  home  early.  We  usually  eat  out, 
but  we  won't  to-night.  I  want  to  talk  and  talk  and 
talk.  Now,  tell  me  what  you've  been  doing  and  what 
you  expect  to  do,  for  you  haven't  been  so  very  explicit 
yourself." 


118          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Well,  in  comparison  to  turning  my  life  inside  out 
as  you  have  done,  mine's  very  tame." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  to  tell,  really.  I've  been  try 
ing  to  see  if  I  couldn't  raise  the  personal  standards  of 
some  of  the  people  in  my  mountain  fastness.  That's 
all.  It's  kind  of  hard  to  explain  if  you  don't  know  the 
conditions.  You  see,  most  people  think  of  the  country 
and  country  children  as  I  did  when  I  first  went  up 
there.  I  expected  them  to  be  behind  city  children  in 
some  ways  but  I  did  not  expect  them  to  be  ahead  of 
them  in  the  ways  they  are.  Jean,  there's  more  rubbish 
talked  about  the  morality  and  health  of  the  country 
than  a  million  books  on  the  subject  could  get  rid  of 
in  a  million  years.  The  purity  of  the  country  is  a 
myth!  There  are  just  as  many  underfed,  subnormal, 
dead,  inert  objects  of  pity  among  my  people,  big  as 
well  as  little,  as  there  ever  was  in  a  congested  city 
slum.  Why,  it  took  my  breath  away.  I  just  wouldn't 
believe  it  at  first.  I  was  all  filled  up  on  this  'pure  air' 
and  'God's  out  of  doors'  dope  until  I  wasn't  fit  to  teach 
a  goat.  But  I  got  it  banged  into  me  at  last.  That's 
why  I'm  here." 

"Elucidate.  You've  jumped  a  few  steps  that  my 
'logical  mind'  needs.  Why  does  the  immorality  and 
stupidity  of  a  mountain  district  school  bring  you  to 
town?" 

"Because  I  want  to  talk  to  a  woman  Fve  never  seen, 
but  from  reading  everything  she  ever  wrote  and  every 
report  she  ever  made  before  all  the  societies  there  are 
and  aren't,  I  have  come  to  feel  that  she  knows  every 
thing  on  earth  that's  worth  while  knowing.  She  may 
have  struggled  with  bovine  intellects  in  a  mountain 
district  school  or  she  may  not,  but  I  know  she'll  have 
something  worth  saying.  Ergo,  I  come." 

"Pat,  as  I  have  remarked  many  a  time  and  oft,  you 
are  the  joy  of  my  soul.  Now  who  on  earth  but  you 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  119 

would  be  so  unspeakably  efficient  as  to  come  down 
here — I  see  I  can't  flatter  myself  that  I  had  anything 
to  do  with  it — in  order  to  consult  an  ideal  on  something 
she  probably  doesn't  know  anything  about?  Idealism 
and  efficiency  go  hand  in  hand." 

"I  don't  care.    Laugh  if  you  like." 

"Who  is  this  prodigy?  May  I  go  and  sit  outside 
and  listen  to  the  pearls  of  wisdom?" 

"  'Listen  to  pearls  of  wisdom.'  Not  so  bad !  Well, 
the  name  of  this  remarkable  woman  is  Dr.  Mary  Mac- 
Lean." 

"What?" 

"Don't  you  like  it?  Sounds  like  a  good,  common- 
sense  Scotch  name  to  me.  Not  in  the  same  class  with 
Jean  Norris  or  Patricia  Farnsworth,  but  no  doubt 
quite  respectable  in  its  way." 

"Dr.  Mary?     My  Dr.  Mary!" 

"Yours?  What  do  you,  married  parasite,  Bohemian 
newspaper  woman,  know  about  Dr.  Mary?" 

"More  than  you  do." 

And  Jean  related  in  detail  her  one  visit  to  the  Hill 
Neighborhood  House. 

"And  you  needn't  think  that  you  are  going  up  there 
alone.  I've  been  thinking  about  her  and  wanting  to 
go  terribly,  but  I  let  such  a  long  time  go  by  and  then 
it  seemed  rather — oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  haven't 
been." 

"Well,  we're  going  and  we're  going  now.  If  I  can't 
see  Franklin  right  away,  at  least  I  can  see  her,  and 
they're  the  two  people  Fm  most  excited  about  at  the 
present  moment.  'Phone  your  husband  instantly  and 
come  along." 

Jean  got  Herrick  on  the  'phone  and  astonished  him 
more  than  he  had  been  astonished  for  a  long  time  by 
demanding  that  he  come  home  to  dinner  and  come  early. 
She  would  give  no  reason  but  chuckled  happily  as  he 
had  not  heard  her  chuckle  for  months. 


120          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Herrick  went  back  and  sat  a  long  while  at  his  desk 
without  doing  anything.  Then  he  telephoned  to  Flop, 
whom  he  had  met  accidentally  early  in  the  afternoon, 
that  he  would  not  be  able  to  help  in  the  celebration  of 
Magnolia's  birthday,  as  he  had  promised.  After  which, 
he  smiled  and  wrote  five  hundred  words  of  very  good 
editorial. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

I     AM    certainly    glad."     Dr.  Mary,  ,as   she    came 
padding  across  the  big  living  room,  saw  only 
Jean.     "I  thought  you  were  a  'promiser,'  and  I  loathe 
'promisers,'  almost  as  much  as  I  do  people  who  really 
forget  me." 

"No,  indeed  I  did  not  forget  you.  I  think  it  was 
because  I  remembered  you  so  well  that  I  didn't  come. 
I  got  to  thinking  how  busy  you  must  be  and — and " 

"You  must  have  been  rather  busy  yourself.  The 
name  they  announced  wasn't  Norris.  Is  it  you?" 

For  the  first  time  she  perceived  Pat  and  looked  in 
quiringly  from  her  to  Jean. 

"Yes.  The  Herrick  is  for  me.  I  was  married  shortly 
after  I  interviewed  you.  Did  you  read  the  interview? 
I  didn't  call  you  anything,  although  I  assure  you  it 
was  a  temptation.  You  have  Mr.  Herrick  to  thank 
for  that.  He  pruned  down  my  finest  flights." 

"Sensible  man.  Oh  yes,  I  read  it.  I  thought  of 
memorizing  it,  you  worded  it  so  much  better  than  I 
ever  did  myself.  But  let's  go  into  my  den.  I  always 
like  to  have  friendly  chats  in  little  rooms.  Big  places 
make  me  feel  official." 

"She's  a  dear,"  whispered  Pat,  as  they  followed  the 
doctor  to  a  small  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

Deep  in  her  leather  chair,  the  doctor  lit  a  cigarette 
and  beamed  at  the  two  young  women  before  her. 

"Are  you  a  newspaper  woman  too,  Miss  Farns- 
worth?"  * 

"Nothing  so  exciting.  A  school  teacher,  and  a  coun 
try  one  at  that." 

121 


122          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Let  me  congratulate  and  condole,  may  I,  both  at 
once  ?" 

"You've  taught,  too!" 

"Does  that  give  me  so  completely  away?  Yes,  I've 
taught,  but  it  was  many  years  ago,  in  an  interim  be 
tween  college  and  medical  when  I  was  trying  to  earn 
money  to  put  myself  through." 

"But  you  haven't  forgotten." 

"Not  a  thing.  It  makes  me  uncomfortable  yet  to 
think  of  some  of  the  mistakes  I  made,  the  big  oppor 
tunities  I  let  get  by.  I  suppose  I  did  not  have  the  right 
stuff  in  me  for  a  teacher.  I  started  so  full  of  hope 
and  plans,  although  I  knew  it  was  not  to  be  my  life 
work,  but  I  let  my  enthusiasm  die  down.  I  let  all 
kinds  of  small,  personal  things  dull  the  edge." 

"But  it's  so  difficult  to  keep  the  edge  sharp.  Some 
times  I  think  that  living  close  to  the  earth  and  animals 
makes  one  like  them." 

"I  don't  know  but  that  you're  right.  Only  that 
never  occurred  to  me  then.  Perhaps  I  went  at  things 
too  violently,  but  when  I  couldn't  wake  them  up,  well — 
I  just  let  them  sleep." 

"And  they've  been  asleep  ever  since,  at  least  mine 
have.  I'm  afraid  I  can  never  wake  them  up." 

Pat's  voice  was  grave  with  her  deep  interest  and 
Jean  glimpsed  the  scope  of  teaching  as  she  had  never 
before. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can.  Because  you  realize  that  there  is 
something  underneath ;  I  didn't.  I  called  it  emptiness, 
when  it  was  really  desperate  shyness  and  fear  of  new 
things,  a  kind  of  deep,  perverted  faithfulness  to  all 
they  have  ever  known." 

"I've  thought  that,  sometimes — and  then  my  light 
goes  out  again.  I  started  a  kind  of  library  when  I  first 
went  up,  but  all  that  the  girls  and  women  seem  to  care 
about — the  men  never  read  at  all — are  love  stories, 
the  sillier  the  better.  Anything  else  is  something  going 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          123 

on  away  off  in  another  world.  It  does  not  concern 
them  and  never  will.  Why,  some  of  my  people  had, 
until  recently,  never  even  heard  of  suffrage  or  sex 
hygiene  or  minimum  wages,  and  they  don't  care  or  un 
derstand  when  I  try  to  explain.  They  accept  their 
lives  like  the  weather.  To  the  men  the  crops  are  good 
or  bad,  and  the  women  have  good  husbands  or  bad 
husbands  and  that's  all.  The  boys  and  girls  marry 
young  and  the  babies  begin  coming  right  away.  For 
a  few  years  the  children  seem  to  be  eager  and  inter 
ested  and  then,  somehow,  it  leaks  away.  I've  only  been 
teaching  two  years  but  I  can  see  it,  as  if  I  had  been 
there  a  hundred.  And  I  want  to  do  something.  I  want 
to  get  those  who  come  to  me  started  right.  Perhaps, 
even  with  little  children  of  six  or  seven,  if  some  of  us 
could  get  the  seed  planted " 

Pat  broke  off,  as  if  the  physical  strength  for  ex 
planation  had  broken  under  the  terrific  weight  of  the 
indifference  with  which  she  was  struggling.  Jean  looked 
at  her  and  a  coldness  settled  about  her  own  heart. 
It  was  so  real  to  Pat  and  so  worth  while,  something 
into  which  she  could  pour  the  whole  warmth  of  herself. 
Jean  pictured  the  last  woman  whom  she  had  inter 
viewed,  with  a  scheme  for  saving  stray  dogs ;  and 
Thompson's  long  harangue  with  the  Art  Department 
about  the  illustrations. 

"You're  right,  absolutely  right,"  Dr.  Mary  went  on ; 
"it  is  the  century  of  the  child.  There's  our  biggest 
chance,  especially  for  you  younger  women,  and  so  few 
see  it.  But  there's  hope.  After  all,  we  are  beginning 
to  creep  in  this  field.  In  the  next  ten  years,  I  hope, 
we'll  at  least  get  on  our  knees.  Maybe  in  twenty  we'll 
be  able  to  walk." 

"It's  so  maddeningly  slow." 

"It's  like  creeping  paralysis,  only  going  the  other 
way.  We  are  not  getting  deader,  but  more  alive,  at 


124          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

the  same  speed.  But  if  we  hang  on  to  our  patience  we'll 
get  something  done." 

Pat  leaned  forward.  "I  wish  you  would  speak  at  the 
next  state  institute.  Maybe  a  few  of  us  would  get  up 
on  our  knees  a  little  sooner." 

Dr.  Mary  laid  her  hand  over  Pat's.  "Thank  you. 
There's  nothing  that  makes  me  feel  so  unworthy  and 
humble  and  grateful  as  meaning  something  to  other 
women.  I  love  'em,  every  one  of  them,  the  young, 
brave,  fearless  women.  Society's  been  asleep  for  ages, 
but  it's  waking  up.  It  needs  us,  in  other  ways  than 
it  thought  it  did,  and  we'll  be  there  with  the  goods." 

Jean  drew  deeper  into  her  chair.  At  the  motion  Dr. 
Mary  turned. 

"I'm  not  even  going  to  apologize,  Mrs.  Herrick,  for 
absorbing  all  the  conversation.  You  know  what  I  am 
when  I  get  started." 

She  grinned  at  Pat.  "When  Mrs.  Herrick  came  to 
interview  me,  she  didn't  get  a  chance  to  say  a  thing. 
I  talked  all  the  time." 

"It  was  the  only  real  hour  I've  had  in  the  whole 
newspaper  business,"  Jean  said  slowly,  "and  I  wish  I 
had  never  come." 

Pat  started  as  if  Jean  had  called  to  her  for  help 
and  the  little  doctor  said  sharply: 

"You  don't  like  interviewing?" 

"I  despise  it!  It's  the  most  futile,  useless  round  of 
senseless  rush  that  was  ever  invented  to  waste  one's 
days.  It  means  nothing  at  all  to  the  one  who  does 
it  or  to  any  one  else.  It's  just  words,  words,  and  more 
words." 

For  several  moments  Dr.  Mary  said  nothing,  but 
sat  looking  at  Jean  with  an  odd  look  in  her  small, 
bright  eyes. 

"If  I  am  rude,  you  must  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Herrick, 
but  why  do  you  do  it,  if  you  feel  that  way?" 

It  was  Jean  now  who  was  silent,  but  Pat  knew  that 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  125 

she  was  trying  to  find  the  right  words  for  something 
that  meant  very  much  to  her. 

"Because,"  she  said,  at  length,  "I  should  go  mad 
doing  nothing  at  all." 

Dr.  Mary  smoked  her  cigarette  to  the  end  in  a 
silence  that  Pat  recalled  afterwards  as  one  of  the  long 
est  and  tensest  five  minutes  she  had  ever  spent.  Then 
the  little  doctor  said  in  her  brisk,  off-hand  fashion: 

"If  salary  is  no  particular  object  to  you,  Mrs.  Her- 
rick,  I  could  find  a  place  for  you  here.  We're  starting 
so  many  things  and  are  overworked  as  it  is.  We  can't 
pay  much,  and  as  you  have  had  no  experience  before, 
the  committee  may  kick  at  giving  anything.  But  I 
believe  the  laborer  is  worth  his  hire  always,  and  have 
never  found  volunteer  work  satisfactory.  If  you  would 
like  to  try  for  a  couple  of  months — it's  better  all 
around  to  have  it  probationary — I  can  use  you." 

Twice  Jean's  lips  opened  but  the  words  would  not 
come. 

"Well,  since  silence  gives  consent,  I  take  it  that  you 
will  try  it." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad." 

"Then  it's  settled.  Let  me  see;  I  suppose  you'll 
have  to  give  the  paper  some  kind  of  notice?" 

"No.  The  managing  editor  never  recognizes  any 
such  obligation  when  the  work  isn't  satisfactory.  And 
it's  only  the  other  way  round.  I'd  like  to  begin  with 
you  right  away." 

"You  can  if  you  want  to.  It's  your  own  affair. 
We're  in  the  throes  of  the  summer  camp  and  two  of 
our  regular  workers  will  be  away  for  the  next  three 
months  attending  to  that.  How  about  next  Monday?" 

"Perfect,"  Jean  said,  trying  to  keep  her  voice  steady. 

"Now  we'll  have  some  tea." 

Dr.  Mary  touched  the  bell  and  a  few  moments  later 
a  maid  brought  in  the  tea  things.  The  doctor  had  a 
fund  of  stories,  humorous,  pathetic,  all  human,  and 


126         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

she  told  them  well.  It  was  almost  six  when  she  rang 
for  the  maid  to  take  away  the  cups  and  then  it  was  too 
late  to  show  Pat  over  the  building. 

"Never  mind.  You'll  come  again  and  very  soon,  and 
I  shall  not  let  you  escape  without  explaining  every  de 
tail." 

She  dropped  Pat's  hand  and  turned  to  Jean. 

"Monday,  then?" 

"Monday."  They  smiled  quietly  as  if  they  were 
sealing  a  contract. 

Out  in  the  street  Pat  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Well!  If  you  ask  me,  I  recommend  that  as  about 
the  quickest  thing  I  ever  saw  pulled  off.  You  go  up 
to  introduce  me,  and  come  out  with  a  new  life  work. 
I  believe  you've  got  it  at  last,  Jean." 

"I  think  I  have,  Pat.  I  feel  as  if  something  had 
clicked  into  place  inside." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  Pat  with  real  fear.  "Pat, 
suppose  you  hadn't  come !  I  wouldn't  have  gone.  I'd 
left  it  too  long.  I  feel  as  if  you'd  rescued  me  from 
something  and — as  if  you'd  come  just  in  time." 

"Little  trick  of  mine,"  Pat  answered  lightly,  but  her 
eyes  clouded  and  she  slipped  her  hand  into  Jean's  arm 
and  held  it  there. 

They  did  not  speak  again  until  they  were  almost  at 
the  studio  door. 

"We  used  to  think  we  knew  an  awful  lot,  didn't  we, 
Jean?" 

Jean  nodded. 

Upstairs  they  found  Herrick.  Pat's  first  impression 
was  very  much  what  Jean's  had  been  the  day  Herrick 
had  walked  into  the  library  and  found  her  sniffing  the 
grass.  Of  a  big  man,  strong  but  rather  lazy,  with 
something  frank  and  winning  and  clean  about  him,  and 
nice  eyes.  And  the  next  was  surprise  that  he  was  so 
different  from  what  she  had  pictured  he  would  be,  and 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          127 

that  never  would  she  have  picked  him  out  as  the  man 
Jean  would  marry. 

"This  is  Pat." 

Herrick  came  forward  and  they  shook  hands  heart- 

ay. 

"I  am  awfully  glad.  I've  heard  of  you,  you  know, 
until  I  was  almost  jealous.  When  did  you  get  in?" 

"About  half  an  hour  before  I  'phoned  you."  Jean 
answered. 

Herrick  turned  to  Jean. 

"I  wondered  what  the  wonderful  surprise  was.  I 
never  could  have  guessed  it." 

Pat  felt  something  in  him  change,  but  before  she 
could  be  sure,  he  was  talking  pleasantly  again. 

Herrick  went  out  and  brought  in  things  for  dinner 
and  they  all  cooked  together.  Pat  and  Jean  did  most 
of  the  talking  but  Herrick  seemed  to  enjoy  their 
reminiscences.  From  time  to  time,  however,  Pat  caught 
a  heaviness  in  his  eyes  as  they  rested  on  Jean,  and  she 
decided  that  there  had  been  some  slight  quarrel  before 
her  arrival  and  that  Herrick  had  not  been  able  to  forget 
it.  In  spite  of  his  gentle  manner  and  kind  eyes,  he 
might  bear  a  grudge  a  long  while. 

The  dinner  was  a  jolly  one.  Jean  looked  as  Herrick 
had  not  seen  her  look  since  they  raced  hand  in  hand, 
against  the  wind,  over  the  hills.  Half  way  through, 
Herrick  turned  to  Pat. 

"I  think  you'll  have  to  come  and  live  with  us,  Pat. 
You're  a  regular  tonic."  Under  the  gayety  of  his 
tone,  Pat  felt  the  resentment.  She  wondered  what  it 
was  they  had  quarreled  about  and  whether  Jean  had 
altogether  forgotten  it.  It  wasn't  like  Jean  to  forget 
anything  that  really  mattered  or,  remembering,  to  pre 
tend  she  did  not. 

"Oh,  I  can't  flatter  myself  that  I  am  responsible." 
Pat  made  no  pretense  of  not  understanding.  "It 
is » 


128         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

She  glanced  at  Jean  and  Jean  nodded.  They  had 
decided  to  say  nothing  about  Jean's  new  work  until 
the  black  coffee  was  reached.  Then  Pat  was  to  spring 
the  surprise  in  the  form  of  a  toast,  but  now  at  Jean's 
nod,  she  continued: 

"It's  not  my  influence  at  all.     Jean  has  a  new  job." 

Herrick  turned  quickly.  "Have  you  left  the 
paper  ?" 

"Yes.  Thompson  doesn't  know  it  yet,  but  he  will 
by  to-morrow.  If  he  makes  a  great  row  I'll  get  him 
one  more  interview  so  he  won't  be  behind,  but  on  Mon 
day  I  take  a  real  job." 

"Doing  what?" 

"I'm  going  to  work  with  Dr.  Mary." 

"At  the  Hill  House?" 

"Yes.  I  feel  as  if  a  hand  had  reached  out  from  the 
blue  and  rescued  me.  I'm  going  to  work." 

Again  Herrick's  face  changed  so  that  Pat  wondered 
whether  she  had  been  quite  right  about  him  in  either 
of  her  estimates.  He  looked  older,  heavier  and  rather 
bored. 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  think  that  is  your  work." 

For  a  moment  Jean  and  Herrick  looked  at  each 
other. 

"I  think  it  is  and  I  expect  to  be  very  happy  in  it." 

"I  hope  you  will." 

Herrick  filled  all  three  glasses  and  cried  gayly: 

"To  the  Poor,  God  bless  'em." 

Pat  stayed  ten  days.  Sometimes  she  went  with  Jean 
on  cases  and  sometimes  she  was  out  all  day  on  work 
of  her  own.  But  every  evening  the  three  met  for  dinner 
in  the  studio  and  afterwards  Jean  and  Pat  talked 
social  and  educational  reforms.  At  first  Herrick 
listened,  not  quite  grasping  the  vital  import  of  thesr 
things  to  them ;  then,  one  night,  he  asked  Jean,  with  a 
lurking  smile  that  annoyed  even  Pat,  whether  she  really 
expected  to  make  over  the  world. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          129 

"No,"  Jean  answered  shortly,  "I  don't;  but  I'm  go 
ing1  to  patch  at  it  as  long  as  I  have  strength  in  my 
body." 

"The  leopard  won't  change  his  spots,  you  know, 
no  matter  how  many  kind  ladies  dab  at  him  with  their 
social  paints." 

"Then  they  will  be  cut  out  or  burned  out,"  Jean 
said  in  such  a  still  voice  that  Pat  stared.  But  Jean 
and  Herrick  were  looking  straight  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  did  not  notice. 

"Poor  leopard,  he'll  die  under  such  treatment." 

"I  don't  know  that  that  would  be  such  a  loss  to  the 
rest  of  the  animals  if  he  did." 

"No.  I  don't  suppose  it  would,"  Herrick  said  after 
a  pause,  in  a  voice  controlled  only  by  the  need  to 
maintain  a  pretense  before  Pat. 

Pat  picked  up  the  table  of  statistics  she  and  Jean 
had  been  discussing  and  studied  it  closely.  For  a 
moment  there  was  not  a  sound.  Then  Herrick  went 
over  to  the  couch  with  a  book  and  Jean  took  up  the 
argument  again. 

Herrick  never  joined  the  conversation  after  that 
evening  but  it  seemed  to  Pat  that  he  was  always  listen 
ing  and  she  felt  that  Jean  felt  it  too. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

ONE  day  in  September  when  Jean  had  been  work 
ing  almost  four  months,  Dr.  Mary  came  to  her 
with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Jean,  I'm  going  to  give  you  this  case,  because  I 
feel  in  my  backbone  that  it's  out  of  the  usual  run,  and 
that's  saying  a  good  deal,  with  some  of  those  we've 
had  lately,  isn't  it?" 

"It  certainly  is.  Perhaps  I  won't  be  able  to  handle 
it." 

"I'll  take  a  chance.  It's  because  I  believe  you  can, 
better  than  any  one  else,  that  I  am  turning  it  over. 
No  one  has  done  a  thing  on  it  yet.  It's  brand  new." 

Jean  took  the  letter.  It  was  written  on  ruled  paper 
in  a  fairly  good  hand. 

"DR.  MARY  MACLEAN — Please  come  to  see  me  as 
soon  as  possible. 

AMELIA  GORMAN." 

"Well,  at  least  Amelia  seems  used  to  giving  orders." 

"No  information  furnished.  No  request  made.  I'd 
like  to  go  myself  if  I  had  the  time.  I  thought  first  of 
turning  it  over  to  the  C.O.S.  of  that  district  but,  some 
how,  the  woman  interests  me.  Do  you  want  it?" 

Jean  was  already  putting  on  her  hat.     Mary  smiled. 

"I  know,  Mary,  but  I  haven't  gotten  over  that  first 
rushed  feeling  yet,  in  spite  of  all  your  warning.  I'm 
always  sure  that  everything  will  go  to  pot  if  I  don't  get 
to  a  case  the  very  minute  I  hear  of  it." 

"I  hope  you  never  will,  not  really.  When  that  goes 

130 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          131 

I  can't  imagine  a  worse  work  than  this  to  be  in.  You'd 
better  take  some  money  with  you,  she's  likely  to  need 
most  anything." 

An  hour  later  Jean  rang  the  bell  of  a  shabby,  two- 
story  house  out  on  the  Mission  Road.  The  house  stood 
a  little  back  in  a  dusty,  parched  patch  of  ground, 
where  a  few  wilting  geraniums  struggled  against  the 
dust-laden  wind  that  blew  always  over  the  bare  hills. 
A  half-grown  girl  opened  the  door.  She  seemed  parched 
by  the  ceaseless  wind  and  her  dry  hair  looked  as  if  it 
had  never  been  quite  free  of  the  dust. 
"Does  Mrs.  Gorman  live  here?" 
"Back  room.  She  ain't  Mrs."  The  girl  stood  star 
ing  while  Jean  knocked  on  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  dark 
hall. 

"Come  in." 

It  was  a  small  room  and  held  only  a  single  bed,  a 
child's  crib,  a  broken  dresser  and  a  chair.  An  emaciated 
woman  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  at  Jean  with  the  calm 
est  look  of  appraisal  that  had  ever  summed  her  up. 

"You're  from  the  Hill  House.  It  wouldn't  be  any 
body  else.  Are  you  Dr.  Mary  MacLean?" 

"No,  I'm  not  Dr.  McLean.     She  had  to  go  out  of 
town.    My  name  is  Herrick." 
"Miss  or  Mrs.?" 
"Mrs." 

"I'm  glad  of  that."  The  woman's  voice  was  per 
fectly  detached,  as  if  something  bigger  than  a  personal 
desire  in  the  matter  directed  her. 

Jean  drew  the  chair  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  sat, 
down. 

"Have  you  any  children?"  The  woman  asked 
abruptly. 

"No.     I  have  no  children." 
"Do  you  want  them?" 

For  some  reason  it  was  impossible  to  resent  this 
woman's  questioning.  She  did  it  so  calmly,  so  deliber- 


132         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

ately,  as  if  each  question  were  the  end  of  a  long-  line  of 
thought,  important  to  her.  Jean  felt  herself  grow 
warm  and  uncomfortable. 

"I  don't — think  very  much  about  it." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  in  which  Jean 
listened  to  the  wind  and  to  some  one  moving  in  the 
room  above.  Suddenly  a  child's  voice  broke  out  in 
angry  protest :  "I  won't ! — I  won't !"  There  was  a  mild 
scuffle,  a  door  slammed,  then  silence.  The  woman  con 
tinued  to  listen  for  a  moment.  She  turned  back  again 
to  Jean. 

"I  did,"  she  said,  in  her  odd  way  of  continuing  her 
own  line  of  thought.  "I  wanted  a  child.  That's  him 
we  just  heard.  Mamie  don't  mean  to  be  mean  but  she 
ain't  any  brighter  than  she  has  to  be  and  she  don't 
understand.  That's  why  I  wrote  to  Dr.  MacLean. 
I  don't  know  whether  you'll  understand,  seem'  you 
never  wanted  one,  but  I'll  have  to  tell  you,  since  you 
was  the  one  she  sent  and  mebbe  there  won't  be  time  to 
send  another.  I  ain't  always  as  strong  as  I  am  to-day, 
and  there  won't  be  many  more  days,  weak  or  strong." 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that.    You  can't " 

The  woman  turned  her  dark  eyes  to  Jean  and  a 
faint  smile  touched  them. 

"There  ain't  no  call  to  talk  that  way  to  me.  I  don't 
want  no  cheerin*  up.  The  time's  past  for  that.  I 
fought  it  all  out  here  alone  and  now  I  got  my  plan 
ready.  I  didn't  send  for  no  one  to  tell  me  I  ain't  goin' 
to  die,  because  I  know  I  am.  If  it  wasn't  for  Jimmie 
I'd  be  glad,  laughin*  glad  to  go.  It's  him  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  you  about." 

For  a  while  she  seemed  to  forget  Jean  altogether  and 
then  she  began  again,  in  a  flat,  even  voice,  choosing 
only  the  thread  of  her  story,  as  if  she  were  used  to 
husbanding  her  small  strength. 

"Did  you  ever  live  in  a  room  like  this?  Get  up  in 
the  mornin'  in  it  and  go  to  bed  at  night  in  it,  and  sit 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          133 

all  the  evenin'  in  it,  so  that  your  thoughts  soak  into  it 
and  you  can  feel  them  rush  out  at  you  the  minute  you 
open  the  door?  You  can  never  get  away.  And  there 
don't  seem  to  be  nothing  in  the  whole  wide  world  but 
yourself.  It's  a  terrible  thing. 

"I  used  to  lay  in  bed  at  night  and  feel  myself  shut  up 
in  my  cell,  and  then  I  got  to  thinkin'  about  all  the  other 
people  in  the  world  shut  up  in  their  cells  and  none  of 
us  could  get  out  or  talk  through  to  one  another, 
millions  of  us  locked  up  tight. 

"Hundreds  of  times  I  said  to  myself,  'If  that's  all 
there  is  to  it,  why  go  on?5  But  I  could  never  come 
round  to  the  picture  of  killing  myself.  Once  I  tried  but 
I  didn't  get  very  far.  And  then  I  begun  wonderin' 
why  it  was  that  I  didn't  do  the  job  straight  through; 
wonderin'  and  wonderin',  until  one  night,  like  an  earth 
quake,  it  hit  me  sudden.  It  was  all  the  people  behind 
me,  clear  back  to  Adam  and  Eve,  holdin'  me  here,  all 
the  men  and  women  that  had  loved  each  other  and 
hated  each  other  and  had  children  and  kept  things 
going.  And  if  I  killed  myself — it  would  be  like  takin' 
one  of  the  girl's  jobs  in  the  factory  to  finish  so  she 
could  draw  her  pay  and  then  not  doin'  it. 

"Mebbe  you  won't  understand,  but  you'll  have  to 
take  it  the  way  I  say,  for  I  saw  it  as  clear  as  I  see  you 
in  that  chair.  We  was  put  here  to  keep  things  goin'. 
And  I  was  goin'  to  stop  'em.  There  wouldn't  be  any 
me  after  I  was  dead  and  all  them  people  back  of  me 
was  goin'  to  drop  out  of  things,  just  like  I  had  killed, 
'em.  Did  you  ever  think  like  that?" 

Jean  shook  her  head.  Before  the  fire  of  loneliness 
that  had  seared  this  woman,  she  could  not  speak. 

"We're  all  different,  I  guess.  But  I  got  so  I  couldn't 
bear  the  thought  of  dyin'  and  bein'  ended,  without  ever 
havin'  had  nothin'  and  leavin'  nothin'  and  so — I  had 
a  baby." 


134         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jean  felt  as  if  the  wind  outside  had  torn  its  way  into 
the  room. 

"You  decided,  made  up  your  mind  to  have  a  baby, 
and  had  one?" 

"It  seems  kind  of  queer,  mebbe,  when  you  say  it 
like  that,  but  it  was  all  simple  after  I'd  been  thinkin' 
about  it.  Lots  of  things  are  queer  when  you  first 
think  about  'em,  but  after  a  while  you  get  used  to 
'em.  It's  like  strangers  you  meet  and  get  to  know 
after  a  bit  real  well." 

Jean  looked  away  to  the  houses  crouching  on  the 
windswept  hill. 

"He  lived  in  the  same  house.  He  was  the  only  man 
that  ever  asked  me  to  go  any  place  with  him  or  tried 
to  kiss  me.  You  see  I  was  twenty-seven  then,  almost 
twenty-eight.  There  was  never  no  talk  about  marryin'. 
He  went  away  before  Jimmie  was  born,  a  long  time' 
before.  I  think  he  was  afraid  somebody'd  find  out. 
He  was  always  kind  of  scared  of  people.  He  sent  some 
money  for  awhile  and  then  he  stopped.  I  didn't  care 
about  the  money.  I  can  always  get  work,  and  as  soon 
as  Jimmie  was  old  enough  to  leave,  I  got  a  job  in  an 
other  place." 

From  under  the  pillow  she  took  a  bit  of  folded  news 
paper  and  handed  it  to  Jean.  It  was  a  clipping  a 
month  old,  a  condensed  account  of  a  political  fight  in 
a  small  town  in  the  southern  part  of  the  state.  It 
said  that  the  fight  had  been  won  by  the  adherents  of 
Mayor  James  PI.  Martin,  who  could  always  be  relied 
on  to  stand  on  the  side  of  law  and  order. 

"He  always  said  he  was  goin'  to  get  into  politics 
some  day  and  he  did.  I  wouldn't  bother  now,  because 
he  ain't  had  none  of  the  joy  of  Jimmie,  but  I  haven't 
more  than  a  few  weeks,  days  mebbe.  It's  cancer,  like 
mother  had  and  grandmother  and  Aunt  Sarah,  and  I 
want  to  know  that  Jimmie  won't  have  to  go  to  an  in 
stitution.  He  can't  be  so  terrible  poor  if  he's  Mayor 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          135 

and  he'll  do  something  for  Jimmie.  Maybe  he'll  be 
kind  of  afraid  at  first  but  if  you  make  him  promise,  he'll 
keep  it.  I'll  give  you  some  letters  he  wrote  and 
Jimmie's  picture.  Will  you  go  ?" 

Evidently  she  had  used  up  all  her  strength,  for  she 
lay  back  now,  wasted  and  white,  with  her  eyes  closed. 
Jean  tried  to  speak  and  couldn't.  It  was  all  so  tangled, 
so  thwarted,  so  stark  and  bare.  It  was  like  the  rickety 
house  in  which  the  woman  lived,  and  the  parched  hills. 
Jean  felt  as  if  the  thick  dust  was  choking  her.  The 
woman  opened  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  understand  very  well,  do  you?" 

"No,  not  very."  Jean  tried  to  say  she  did,  but  the 
naked  honesty  of  the  other  compelled  the  same  from 
her.  "I  can  understand  how  you  must  have  been 
lonely  but " 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "No,  that's  just  what 
you  don't,  or  you  would  understand  it  all." 

Her  hands,  white  from  illness,  took  Jean's.  "But 
you're  kind  and  it  don't  matter  much.  I  wanted  the 
Doctor  because  she  was  awfully  good  to  one  of  the  girls 
that  worked  with  me  once,  and  when  I  was  thinking  of 
somebody,  I  remembered  her." 

Jean  forced  back  the  sob  in  her  throat.  "I'll  go  to 
night  if  there's  a  train." 

The  sick  woman  smiled  gratefully.  "You  are  kind," 
she  said  again.  "And — there's  not  many  that's  kind 
when  they  don't  understand." 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

JEAN  propped  her  note  to  Herrick  on  the  desk  where 
he  would  be  sure  to  see  it  as  soon  as  he  came  in,  »nd 
caught  the  six-fifteen  train. 

When  Herrick  came  at  half  past  six  he  found  the 
note,  read  it  three  times  and  tore  it  into  bits. 

"Taking  the  six-fifteen  to  Belgrave  on  a  case. 
May  be  away  a  few  days.  JEAN." 

It  was  eight  before  Herrick  stopped  pacing  up  and 
down  the  studio,  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 

Giuseppe's  was  crowded.  The  air  reeked  with  smoke 
and  the  heavy  odor  of  highly  seasoned  food.  Not  a 
place  at  the  long  table  was  vacant.  Flop  was  de 
nouncing  the  low  standards  of  American  art,  exemplified 
in  the  flat  failure  of  a  recent  exhibit  of  his  own,  and  the 
others  pounded  the  table  in  the  old  way  and  shouted 
their  approval.  Flop  caught  sight  of  Herrick  first, 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  then,  with  a 
shout : 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!  Look  who's  here,"  got  up 
and  dragged  Herrick  forward  as  if  the  latter  had  been 
trying  to  get  away. 

"Boy  Blue!     Franklin!    Herrick!" 

The  racket  was  deafening.  The  Outlanders  jumped 
on  chairs  to  see  what  was  happening.  Flop  corraled  a 
waiter  hurrying  by  with  a  demijohn  of  wine  and  took 
it  way  from  him. 

"This  is  on  the  house,  Pietro.  We  drink  to  the  re 
turn  of  the  lost  sheep." 

136 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          137 

A  waiter  brought  Herrick  a  chair.  He  took  it,  and 
walking  deliberately  about  the  table,  placed  it  next 
to  The  Kitten's.  There  was  much  laughing  and  some 
quick  looks  interchanged  and  The  Kitten  shrugged  as 
if  the  matter  did  not  concern  her  in  the  least,  and  con 
tinued  to  talk  to  another  man  across  Herrick's  back. 
The  enthusiasm,  diverted  for  a  moment  from  its  chan 
nel,  went  back.  The  Kitten  finished  what  she  had  been 
saying  and  was  forced  at  last  to  meet  Herrick's  eyes. 
She  tried  to  hold  the  contempt  in  them,  but  it  was  use 
less.  The  corners  of  her  scarlet  lips  trembled.  Her 
rick's  hand  took  hers  under  the  table. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Kittycat.  We  wouldn't  keep  it  up, 
you  know.  ..." 

Two  hours  later  The  Bunch  went  singing  up  the 
hill  to  Flop's.  Herrick  and  The  Kitten  turned  down  a 
side  street.  Herrick  walked  with  the  light,  springing 
step  that  had  reminded  Jean  of  the  earth  and  wide 
spaces.  The  Kitten  skimmed  along  beside  him,  cling 
ing  to  his  arm.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  lifted  her, 
and  carried  her  up.  He  put  her  in  the  Morris  chair 
and  knelt  beside  her.  Every  motion  was  a  repetition  of 
the  last  time  he  had  knelt  so.  It  was  all  exactly  the 
same,  even  to  the  bar  of  light  from  the  street  lamp, 
and  the  fine,  tired  lines  about  The  Kitten's  mouth. 

The  Kitten  bent  and  lifted  his  face  from  her  knees. 

'Why  did  you  do  it,  Boy?" 

"I  don't  know,  Kitten." 

She  drew  his  head  to  her  shoulder  and  stroked  his 
hair  quietly.  There  was  no  claim  in  her  touch,  no 
insistence,  only  peace.  The  Kitten  was  weary,  too. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said  at  last. 

Herrick  smiled.  "She's  straightening  out  all  the 
misery  and  sin  and  ugliness  in  the  world,  Kittycat,  and 
it  keeps  her  rather  busy." 

They  talked  for  a  while  of  Jean  and  the  little  doctor 
and  the  futile,  foolish  tasks  at  which  they  labored. 


138         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"It  makes  me  tired  to  think  of  so  much  energy." 
The  Kitten  yawned.  "I'm  glad  I  have  no  'work.*  I 
wouldn't  'improve'  a  single  living  human  being,  even  if 
I  could,  not  even  you,  Boy  Blue." 

"Most  wise  Kitty."  Herrick  drew  her  to  him  and 
kissed  her  passionately. 

The  next  day  they  slipped  away  for  the  week-end 
to  the  cabin  on  the  Portuguese  ranch  where  he  and 
Jean  had  spent  their  honeymoon. 

"It  was  the  first  place  we  ever  went,  Boy,  and  I  want 
to  go  there  again,"  insisted  The  Kitten.  After  a 
moment's  hesitation  Herrick  agreed. 

Tlie  dairyman  and  his  wife  showed  no  surprise. 
They  were  as  dark,  as  silent  as  ever.  The  woman 
wore  the  same  bright  red  skirt  and  the  same  dirty  white 
waist.  She  brought  food  to  the  cabin  as  she  had 
brought  it  before,  without  a  word.  There  was  the 
same  full,  silver  moonlight  brimming  the  bowl  of  the 
little  canyon,  and  the  same  quiet  cows  wandering  over 
the  hills. 

They  stayed  two  days  and  went  back.  Herrick 
wondered  what  he  would  say  if  Jean  had  already  re 
turned,  and  gravitated,  according  to  his  mood,  from  a 
lie  he  knew  would  not  deceive  her,  to  the  truth. 

But  Jean  had  not  come.  Nor  did  she  come  the  next 
day,  nor  the  next.  For  the  Mayor  of  Belgrave  had  a 
cold.  Years  afterwards,  Herrick  speculated  some 
times,  what  his  life  would  have  been,  if  James  Martin, 
Mayor  of  Belgrave,  had  not  had  a  cold. 

But  the  Mayor  did  have  a  cold,  and  not  even  Jean's 
most  Machiavellian  tricks  succeeded  in  getting  at  him. 
In  a  small  neat  house,  behind  a  small  neat  lawn,  a 
small,  neat  wife  guarded  his  civilian  privacy  and  Jean 
was  forced  to  wait  until  the  fourth  day,  when  pro 
tected  by  an  overcoat  and  neck  muffler,  in  spite  of  the 
glorious  fall  sunshine,  Mayor  Martin  again  took  up 
his  official  duties.  Almost  as  soon  as  the  office  was 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          139 

opened,  Jean  forced  herself  beyond  the  secretary  and 
confronted  the  Mayor,  small  and  neat  like  his  wife  and 
the  baby  Jean  had  seen  being  aired  on  the  lawn. 

In  words  as  few  and  stark  as  Amelia  Gorman's  she 
presented  the  case. 

"Now,  what  I  suggest,  Mr.  Martin,  is  that  you  send  to 
us  monthly  fifteen  dollars,  for  which  we  can  board  your 
child  in  a  respectable  family.  When  he  is  fourteen,  if 
he  shows  promise  of  making  more  than  a  grammar 
school  education  advisable,  this  amount  to  be  increased 
to  twenty.  He  can  make  up  the  rest  himself  until  he 
graduates  from  some  technical  school.  In  the  event 
of  your  dying  before  he  has  reached  the  earning  age, 
this  amount  is  to  be  continued.  You  can  arrange  it 
as  a  bequest  to  us  and  need  not  mention  the  child." 

The  little  man  sat  staring  at  Jean.  Behind  his  flat, 
frightened  eyes,  she  could  see  the  procession  of  his 
small  hopes,  running  to  their  death.  He  would  do  as 
she  asked  because  he  could  think  of  no  way  of  escaping 
with  the  dignity  that  befitted  his  office.  He  would 
cover  his  terror  under  the  cloak  of  his  mayoralty  and 
submit  to  supporting  his  child,  as  he  might  have  con 
tributed  to  the  erection  of  a  public  library.  But  for 
all  the  rest  of  his  life  he  would  enjoy  the  memory  of 
this  morning.  Once  the  danger  of  publicity  was  re 
moved,  he  would  come  to  regard  himself  as  a  bold,  bad 
man  of  the  world,  and  from  the  pinnacle  of  his  knowl 
edge  of  evil  look  down  upon  the  sober,  uninteresting 
members  of  his  town  and  of  the  church,  where  he  went 
every  Sunday  morning  in  a  neat  black  hat. 

"Well,  Mr.  Martin?" 

Jean  gathered  up  her  gloves  and  handbag  and  rose. 
He  reached  out  as  if  forcibly  to  detain  her,  almost  as 
if  he  expected,  should  he  refuse,  that  she  would  go 
through  the  town  with  a  bell,  proclaiming  him  in  pub 
lic. 

"Of  course,  I  wish  you  and  your  office,  to  under- 


140         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

stand  that  I  do  this  through  no  legal,  or,  I  may  say, 
moral  compulsion." 

He  was  like  a  vicious  terrier  taking  a  last  nip  at 
some  one's  leg,  before  being  dragged  away  on  a  rope. 
"I  have  many  demands  made  on  me,  both  public  and 
private,  and  my  income  is  not  large." 

"Fifteen  is  not  much,  Mr.  Martin,  for  food  and 
clothes  and  schooling.  You  will  find  later  that  your 
present  baby  will  require  all  of  that." 

At  the  mention  of  the  baby,  the  Mayor  frowned. 

"I  never  shirk  an  opportunity,  Mrs.  Herrick,  to 
make  another  happy.  I  will  remit  the  amount  to  you 
monthly  by  check.  It  is  to  be  booked  as  a  contribu 
tion  to  your  work." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Martin." 

The  Mayor  escorted  Jean  to  the  elevator,  rang  the 
bell  for  her  and,  as  she  stepped  in,  bowed  elaborately. 
Jean  chuckled.  Already  he  was  assuming  the  manners 
of  the  bold,  bad  man. 

The  train  got  in  about  eight.  Jean  went  straight 
to  the  studio,  after  finding  that  Dr.  Mary  would  not 
be  back  until  the  morning.  It  was  dark,  and  when 
Jean  turned  on  the  light  she  saw  that  the  dust  was 
thick  on  everything.  Herrick  had  evidently  not 
straightened  it  out  since  she  left.  It  looked  forlorn 
and  struck  through  the  exhilaration  of  Jean's  mood 
unpleasantly.  As  always,  successful  accomplishment 
gave  Jean  a  sense  of  physical  well  being  that  she  en 
joyed  as  deeply  and  as  consciously  as  ever  Martha 
did  her  moods  of  spiritual  exaltation. 

When  she  had  put  away  her  things,  she  turned  off 
the  light  and  stretched  out  on  the  couch.  Through  the 
open  window  she  could  see  the  stars,  and  their  peace 
quieted  the  inner  excitement  that  had  held  her  ever 
since  she  left  Mayor  Martin's  office.  She  had  done  a 
good  piece  of  work  with  which  Dr.  Mary  would  be 
pleased  and  because  of  which  Amelia  Gorman  would 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          141 

die  happier.  But  beyond  this,  the  thread  of  her  action 
stretched  down  the  years,  binding  together  lives  of 
which  she  knew  nothing.  At  a  moment's  notice  she  had 
entered  these  lives,  just  as  she  might  go  to  the  window 
and  call  a  stranger  into  the  studio,  and  never  would 
life  be  the  same  to  these  strangers  as  if  she  had  not  done 
the  thing  she  had.  The  Mayor  would  grow  old  and  die, 
a  different  man  than  he  would  have  been  if  every  month 
he  had  not  sent  fifteen  dollars  for  the  support  of 
Amelia's  child.  And  all  the  lives  he  touched  would 
react  to  this  secret  check.  Jimmie  would  grow  up  in 
some  workman's  family  and  their  lives  and  his  would  be 
altered.  She  remembered  how  once  she  had  thought  of 
each  person,  weaving  before  his  own  loom,  deliberately 
choosing  or  rejecting  the  threads  that  Life  offered. 
Now  she  saw  myriads  upon  myriads  weaving  before  a 
high  loom  whose  frame  was  lost  in  the  immensity  of 
time  and  distance. 

She  started  as  the  door  opened  and  Herrick  entered. 
He  did  not  see  her,  but  came  over  to  the  empty  fire 
place  and  stood  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  mantel  shelf. 
He  looked  tired  and  there  were  lines  about  his  mouth. 
Compunction  for  she  knew  not  what  seized  Jean  and 
she  rose  quickly. 

"Begee!" 

Herrick  whirled.  Jean  had  been  the  last  person  in 
his  mind. 

"You!"  he  demanded  stupidly,  and  instantly  recog 
nized  that  his  tone  gave  the  natural  meeting  the  pro 
portions  of  drama. 

Jean  laughed.     "Sure.     Who  else?" 

"Your  note,  you  know,  wasn't  very  illuminating.  I 
didn't  know  whether  you  were  going  for  a  day  or  a 
month." 

"I  know.  But  I  was  so  excited  and  I  didn't  know 
myself  exactly." 

Jean  saw  that  her  abrupt  going  had  hurt  Herrick 


142         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  she  tried  to  make  up  now.  She  came  closer  and 
laid  a  hand  on  his. 

"I'll  make  some  chocolate  and  then  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it.  It  would  make  a  perfectly  ripping  story." 

Herrick  looked  down  on  Jean's  hand  resting  upon 
his  and  it  seemed  to  him  something  disconnected  from 
both  of  them.  He  wished  she  would  take  it  away.  To 
his  jangled  nerves  it  was  a  real  weight,  pressing 
heavily  upon  him.  It  was  force,  that  strong,  white 
hand,  a  mechanical  force  for  pushing  obstacles  from 
her  path.  It  would  push  him  and  her  mother  and  all 
who  did  not  see  things  as  she  saw  them,  all  but  the  fat, 
mannish  little  doctor  with  her  stupid  generalities.  With 
the  merest  touch  of  those  firm,  cool  fingers  it  would 
push  The  Kitten  into  oblivion. 

"A  corking  story?" 

Jean  resented  Herrick's  mechanical  interest  but 
tried  not  to  show  it.  She  had  been  wrong  and  had  said 
so  and  it  was  trivial  of  him  to  let  the  memory  rankle. 

"Wait  till  you  hear  it.  It's  a  regular  Thomas 
Hardy  novel.  It  ought  to  be  set  in  the  granite  hills 
of  Devon." 

While  they  drank  the  chocolate,  Jean  told  him  of 
the  woman  propped  on  her  pillows  in  the  miserable 
room,  with  the  wind  blowing  over  the  stony  hills ;  of 
the  frightened  Mayor  with  his  overwhelming  respecta 
bility.  Her  eyes  glowed  and  the  strong,  white  hands 
moved  in  unusual  gestures,  as  if  from  the  slough  of 
human  weakness  and  suffering  into  which  they  were 
plunged,  she  was  drawing  quivering  bodies  and  setting 
them  on  a  stage.  Herrick's  bitterness  saw  none  of  the 
drama,  only  Jean's  own  safety  from  any  suffering. 
There  she  sat,  glowing  with  interest  in  her  "case,"  a 
stupid,  everyday  matter  of  seduction.  She  could  work 
up  a  tragedy  about  a  scrubwoman  overcome  by  phys 
ical  desire.  But  for  him,  for  his  needs,  for  The  Kitten, 
for  Flop,  for  any  one  whose  way  of  life  was  different, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          143 

whose  clothes  did  not  please  her,  whose  manner  did  not 
suit  her,  she  had  no  sympathy  and  no  understanding. 
Herrick  laughed. 

"It's  a  scream,  simply  a  scream!  A  lot  of  women 
puttering  about,  fiddling  with  the  forces  of  Nature  and 
getting  paid  for  it !" 

Jean's  face  went  white. 

"I  might  have  known,"  she  said  and  sought  for  words 
that  would  hurt  him  most,  "that  you  could  not  possibly 
grasp  the  spiritual  significance." 

Herrick's  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  were  two  black 
slits  as  he  bent  across  the  table. 

"You're  a  fool,  Jean,  you  and  Dr.  Mary  and  all  the 
other  dead,  marble  women  she  has  trailing  in  her 
train." 

It  seemed  afterwards  to  Herrick  that  they  stood  for 
hours  looking  at  each  other  across  the  table,  before 
Jean  turned,  and  without  a  word  went  the  length 
of  the  studio  and  closed  and  locked  the  bedroom  door 
behind  her. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

IN  the  months  that  followed  there  were  whole  weeks 
when  Herrick  despised  Jean  for  her  blindness ; 
when  he  hated  her  for  the  calm,  filled  order  of  her  days ; 
when  he  wanted  to  go  and  lay  his  head  in  her  lap  and 
be  comforted. 

What  would  Jean  do  if  he  told  her? 

She  would  answer  as  she  would  to  any  cry  of  dis 
tress.  In  a  scientific,  impersonal  way  she  would  even 
be  happy  at  her  ability  to  help.  For  the  time  he 
would  be  her  favorite  "case."  She  would  probe  into 
his  feeling  for  The  Kitten  and  into  The  Kitten's  and 
decide  what  was  to  be  done.  When  she  had  analyzed 
it  all,  she  would  ask  him  what  he  wanted  to  do. 

What  did  he  want? 

From  considering  the  abstract  possibility  of  his 
wife's  action,  Herrick  came  down  to  Jean  herself* 
Picture  after  picture  of  her  flashed  before  him.  Jean 
in  the  Sundays  before  their  marriage.  Jean  as  she 
had  looked  in  the  moonlight,  beside  the  driftwood 
fires.  Jean  on  the  Sunday  mornings  when  they  used 
to  argue  about  the  novel.  Did  she  ever  think  of  it 
now?  It  was  months  since  they  had  even  mentioned 
it.  Had  she  forgotten  this  thing  that  had  once 
seemed  the  motive  of  her  days?  Had  her  interest  ever 
been  real,  or  had  it  only  filled  an  empty  space?  In  the 
mazes  of  his  own  nature  Herrick  groped  and  could  find 
no  answer.  After  almost  three  years  of  marriage 
Herrick  knew  less  of  Jean  than  he  had  the  first  day 
in  the  library. 

Would  she  go  on  forever  as  they  were  going  now? 

144 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          145 

They  had  never  referred  in  any  way  to  the  night  that 
Jean  had  come  back  from  Belgrave.  It  might  never 
have  been,  for  all  the  outward  difference  it  had  made 
in  their  lives.  Only  Jean  never  again  mentioned  a 
case  nor  did  she  ever  ask  him  to  come  on  Sunday  after 
noons  to  The  Hill  House  where  she  poured  for  the 
neighborhood  teas  that  she  and  Dr.  Mary  had  insti 
tuted  for  the  winter. 

On  Sundays  Herrick  went  to  Flop's.  Jean  made  no 
comment,  except  sometimes  to  inquire  about  various 
people,  with  a  forced  interest  that  exasperated  Her 
rick.  As  for  The  Bunch,  they  never  asked  about  Jean. 
Behind  the  banner  of  "personal  freedom,"  Herrick  and 
The  Kitten  marched  unquestioned.  As  indifferent  as 
the  rest,  Vicky  had  gone  back  to  the  country.  The 
Kitten  had  refused  to  go  with  him. 

The  long  rains  ended  and  spring  came  again.  The 
air  was  clean  and  soft,  and  fluffy  white  clouds  sailed 
over  the  hills,  once  more  cameo-clear  against  the  blue. 
Herrick  and  Jean  saw  even  less  of  each  other  than 
through  the  winter.  They  ate  together  in  the  morn 
ings  and  then  went  their  ways.  The  paper  was  chang 
ing  hands  and  Herrick  spoke  of  the  new  proprietor  and 
the  future  policy.  Dr.  Mary  and  Jean  were  drawing 
up  a  pamphlet  on  the  evil  conditions  resulting  from 
bad  housing,  and  now  that  the  actual  gathering  of 
statistics  was  over,  and  the  work  had  widened  to  in 
clude  quarrels  with  political  bosses,  with  the  Board  of 
Health  and  Building  Commissions,  Jean  was  in  her 
glory.  The  breakfasts  were  calm  meals,  unruffled, 
impersonal  and  dead. 

The  darkest  spot  in  this  third  summer  of  Jean's 
married  life  was  Martha.  The  small  face  was  thinner 
and  whiter  and,  for  the  first  time  in  Jean's  memory, 
her  mother  moved  slowly  about  the  house.  Jean  went 
as  often  as  she  could  and  frequently  found  her  sitting 
on  the  porch  behind  the  screen  of  roses,  her  hands  idle 


146         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

in  her  lap.  Twice,  tiptoeing  in  unexpectedly,  Jean 
had  found  her  mother  lying  down,  her  eyes  closed  in 
such  utter  weariness  that  Jean's  heart  had  stopped 
beating  for  a  moment  in  a  terrible  fear. 

But  each  time  Martha  had  insisted  that  it  was  only 
the  heat  and  promised  faithfully  that  she  would  take 
more  rest. 

"Mummy,  it's  really  selfish  of  you  not  to  let  me 
help.  I  know  half  a  dozen  women  who  would  be  glad 
to  come  over  and  work  for  their  home  and  a  very  small 
salary,  and  I  could  spare  it  so  easily." 

"Now,  Jeany,  don't  be  silly."  At  this  point  Martha 
always  got  up  briskly  and  began  preparing  tea.  "In 
all  the  years  that  I've  kept  house,  I've  never  had  a 
maid."  ' 

"Which  is  no  reason  at  all,"  Jean  insisted.  "You 
know,  Martha  Norris,  that  once  you  see  the  error  of 
your  ways  the  trouble's  over.  You  used  to  tell  me 
that  yourself  when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"Maybe  I  did.     But  the  cases  aren't  the  same." 

"Why  not?"  It  was  the  oldest  form  of  dispute  they 
had,  Jean  quoting  her  mother's  own  words  and  Martha 
insisting  the  cases  were  not  the  same.  "It  is  the  same, 
exactly.  You're  not  well,  or  else  you're  getting  lazy. 
Which  is  it?  It  must  be  one." 

"Not  at  all.  You're  just  talking  to  hear  yourself, 
Jeany.  You  always  were  fond  of  that  silly  arguing 
that  pins  people  down  to  a  yes  or  no." 

"Oh,  mummy,  you're  such  a  fake.  You  get  so 
terribly  philosophic  when  you  want  to  slip  out  of  a 
thing.  But  now  listen  to  me.  I  won't  scold  you  any 
more.  But  I'm  going  to  watch  you  precisely  as  if 
you  were  a  'case'  and  I'll  give  you  till  the  tenth  of 
July  and  not  one  day  longer.  If  you  look  the  way 
you  do  now  you're  going  to  the  country,  if  I  have  to 
take  you  there  by  force.  Do  you  hear?" 

Martha  smiled.     "Yes,  dear,  I  hear." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          147 

It  was  an  afternoon  at  the  end  of  June  and  Martha 
and  Jean  were  in  the  clean,  darkened  kitchen,  waiting 
for  the  kettle  to  boil.  Bees  buzzed  in  the  garden  out 
side  and  the  old  pine  was  sweetly  fragrant  in  the 
warmth.  There  was  something  very  positive  and  real 
about  this  peace  and  clean  orderliness,  so  that  Jean 
wondered  whether,  after  all,  this  silent  strength  was 
an  accident  of  her  mother's  nature,  or  whether  the  quiet 
little  figure,  trotting  on  its  mechanical  round  of  duty, 
had  not  achieved  it,  at  perhaps  a  price  no  one  guessed. 

Jean  watched  her  as  she  beat  up  a  pan  of  the  tea 
biscuits  that  no  remonstrance  of  Jean's  had  been  able 
to  stop. 

"I'd  have  to  make  something  for  supper  and  I  might 
just  as  well  make  these." 

And  as  always  she  had  her  way.  Jean  listened  to 
the  bees  and  watched  the  deft  hands  at  their  work. 
It  was  so  precisely  as  it  had  always  been  and  yet  some 
how  it  was  different.  Jean's  mind  wandered  lazily 
about  the  problem.  What  was  different?  Why  did 
it  no  longer  annoy  her?  It  had  once. 

She  remembered  the  day  of  graduation  when  all  her 
fine  enthusiasm  to  fill  her  life  with  work  and  beauty 
had  died  at  the  sight  of  Martha  dishing  up  the  roast. 
And  the  day  when  she  had  heard  of  the  library  work 
and  Martha  had  gone  on  making  apple  pies.  And 
now  she  was  making  tea  biscuits  and  pretending  that 
nothing  was  the  matter  with  her,  when  Jean  could 
see  that  it  was  a  strain  to  lift  the  heavy  mixing  bowl 
and  that  tiny  drops  of  perspiration  appeared  at  the 
corners  of  Martha's  mouth.  She  was  ill  and  no  doubt 
she  knew  it. 

Jean  got  up  and  took  the  mixing  bowl  away  from 
her. 

"Mummy,  you're  all  in.  You  can  scarcely  stand. 
You've  got  to  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

"Now,  Jeany "     But  Martha's  eyes  fell  before 


148         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

her  daughter's.  "I  don't  feel  quite  so  strong  as  usual, 
but  it's  the  heat.  It's  the  warmest  June  we've  had  for 
years." 

"It's  nothing  of  the  kind.  It's  not  a  bit  hotter  than 
it  always  is.  And  if  you  feel  like  this  now,  what  will 
you  be  in  July?  I  don't  believe  I'll  give  you  till  the 
tenth.  I  have  a  good  mind  to  cart  you  off  to  a  doctor 
this  very  minute." 

"Now,  Jean  daughter,  I  appreciate  your  interest 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  but  remember  I  am  not  a  case. 
I  won't  be  packed  off  to  a  doctor." 

"I  wish  you  were,  I'd  straighten  you  out  in  two 
minutes.  You're  really  a  very  simple  proposition.  I'd 
close  this  place,  send  you  to  a  nice  quiet  country 
house  where  you  would  have  nothing  to  do  but  eat 
lovely  food  cooked  by  some  one  else,  and  get  fat." 

"I  should  hate  to  get  fat  and  there's  no  place 
nicer  or  quieter  than  this." 

"But,  mummy,  you  need  a  change." 

"Well,"  Martha  took  the  bowl  away  from  Jean  and 
went  on  with  her  mixing,  "I  haven't  said  that  I 
wouldn't  take  that,  have  I?  You  always  were  the  most 
impatient  child.  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  put  on 
my  hat  this  minute  and  leap  on  a  train." 

"I  certainly  would,  but  I  can't  imagine  you  'leaping' 
at  anything  unless  it  was  particularly  disagreeable. 
For  the  second  time,  listen  to  your  daughter,  who  has 
had  much  experience  managing  many  families  and  can 
surely  manage  one  small  mother.  Next  week  Mary 
and  I  are  going  to  locate  a  new  summer  camp  for 
mothers.  We're  going  to  take  the  train  and  get  off 
wherever  it  looks  good  to  us  and  tramp  and  ride  around 
till  we  find  the  exact  spot.  It's  going  to  be  glorious. 
I've  been  looking  forward  to  it  for  months.  I'd  just 
bundle  you  along,  too,  but  you  wouldn't  enjoy  it,  and 
besides  it's  going  to  be  awfully  strenuous.  What  you 
need  is  rest.  But  I  won't  budge  a  step  unless  you're 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          149 

fixed  first,  do  you  hear?  If  you  don't  go  to  a  doctor 
and  get  some  kind  of  tonic  and  promise  to  do  exactly 
as  he  says,  I'll  stay  right  here  and  work  without  a 
day's  vacation.  There,  now  will  you  do  as  I  say?" 

"What's  Franklin  going  to  do,  while  you  and  Doc- 
tor  traipse  about?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  said  something  about  taking  a 
vacation  himself  once,  but  he  hasn't  said  anything  very 
lately." 

"Jean,  I  don't  want  to  annoy  you  or  interfere  in 
any  way  with  your  life.  You're  a  married  woman  and 
must  manage  your  affairs.  But,  I've  never  seen  any 
happiness  come  of  a  husband  and  wife  having  separate 
interests  and  not  knowing  what  the  other's  going  to  do. 
Not  that  I've  seen  much  happiness  come  of  any  mar 
ried  life.  But  if  you  do  the  best  you  can,  you  can't 
do  any  more  and  you  can't  have  it  on  your  conscience 
that  the  fault  was  yours." 

Jean  laughed.  After  all,  if  there  was  any  change  it 
must  be  in  herself,  for  certainly  Martha  was  the  same 
as  ever. 

"Mummy,  times  have  changed.  No  modern  husband 
and  wife  clamp  on  each  other's  backs  in  the  good  old- 
fashioned  way.  Marriage  isn't  a  pond  in  which  you 
both  drown,  hanging  madly  to  each  other." 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's — it's  a  mutual  arrangement.  If  you  have  the 
same  interests  and  ambitions,  you  work  them  out  to 
gether  and  if  you  haven't,  why,  each  one  works  out 
his  own." 

Even  as  Jean  spoke,  she  wondered  when  she  had 
come  to  formulate  this  theory  so  decidedly.  She  re 
membered  the  night  in  the  studio  when  she  had  promised 
to  marry  Herrick  and  life  had  seemed  to  her  like  a 
river  in  which  they  would  both  swim  on  together  side 
by  side.  But  the  current  had  come  between  and  now 
they  were  the  width  of  the  stream  apart. 


150         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"You  could  always  word  things  better  than  I,  Jean, 
but  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  that's  all  there  is  to 
them.  They  don't  mean  much  when  you  get  right  down 
to  the  bottom  of  them.  How  can  two  people,  'whom 
God  has  joined  together,'  work  out  their  lives  apart? 
It's  like  the  nonsense  you  and  Pat  used  to  talk,  just 
as  if  you  could  do  with  life  anything  you  happened  to 
feel  like.  We  weren't  put  in  this  world  to  follow  every 
whim  and  there's  no  bigger  whim-killer  than  the  state 
of  holy  matrimony." 

Martha  stopped,  cut  the  biscuits  and  laid  each  one 
carefully  in  the  pan.  When  she  had  put  them  in  the 
gas  oven  she  began  clearing  up  the  table.  Jean  had 
gone  back  to  her  chair  and  sat  looking  absently  into 
the  garden. 

"I  don't  believe,  mummy,"  she  said  at  last,  "that 
anything  that  makes  you  feel  smothered  is  right,  no 
matter  what  holy  state  it  belongs  in.  If  that  isn't 
'wrapping  your  talent  in  a  napkin,'  then  what  is? 
Franklin  doesn't  care  whether  a  hundred  people  live  in 
a  room  or  not.  He  doesn't  think  it  matters  whether 
people  live  like  intelligent  humans  or  like  animals.  He 
doesn't  think  that  any  one  can  change  any  one  else  or 
make  the  world  a  bit  better." 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  Martha's  face.  "It's  an 
awful  way  to  believe,  Jeany.  I  hate  to  think " 

"Then  must  I  give  up  my  beliefs  and  take  things  as 
they  are?" 

Martha  wiped  the  last  grain  of  flour  from  the  table, 
washed  out  the  cloth  and  hung  it  on  the  rack  to  dry. 

"Some  women  should  never  marry." 

Jean  looked  quickly  at  her  mother  and  then  away. 
After  a  moment  she  said  gayly: 

"All  of  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question 
in  hand,  Mummy  Norris,  and  that  is  that  you  go  to 
the  doctor  and  get  a  tonic  or  I'll  come  and  take  you 
myself." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          151 

Martha  agreed  that  she  would  go,  and  the  subject 
of  "holy  matrimony"  and  "separate  interests"  was 
dropped. 

But  as  Jean  crossed  back  to  the  city  she  decided 
that  she  would  ask  Herrick  what  his  vacation  plans 
were  and,  if  possible,  arrange  her  own  to  meet  them. 

Herrick  was  leaving  the  studio  as  Jean  entered.  He 
stared  in  such  surprise  that  Jean  felt  uncomfortable. 

"I  knocked  off  early  this  afternoon  and  went  over 
to  mummy's,"  she  explained.  "She  hasn't  been  well 
and  I've  been  worried.  I  thought  maybe  we  might  go 
to  dinner  somewhere,  or  we  could  have  it  here." 

Herrick's  first  surprise  gave  way  to  amusement. 
After  all,  there  was  something  amusing  in  Jean's  self- 
centered  density.  For  months  they  had  come  and  gone 
without  inquiring  about  each  other's  engagements  and 
now,  because  the  notion  seized  her,  Jean  assumed  the 
possibility  of  acting  as  if  they  were  in  the  habit  of 
knowing  each  other's  whereabouts  every  moment  of  the 
day.  The  amusement  deepened  as  Jean  stood  without 
taking  off  her  things,  apparently  waiting  for  him  to 
decide. 

Herrick  had  promised  to  take  The  Kitten  to  a  Syrian 
restaurant  that  had  just  opened,  and  every  moment 
that  he  delayed  increased  the  possibility  of  The  Kitten 
herself  appearing.  She  often  came  for  him  if  he  were 
a  little  late,  although  Herrick  had  begged  her  not  to. 
She  liked  the  excitement  of  the  risk  she  ran  in  meeting 
Jean,  but  she  always  claimed  that  she  came  because 
she  loved  the  studio. 

Herrick  stood  undecided.  A  meal  with  Jean  would 
be  a  restful  thing.  There  would  be  no  emotional  de 
mands,  no  insistence.  And  The  Kitten  was  getting 
very  insistent.  At  first,  the  renewal  of  her  little, 
cuddling  pleas  to  be  assured  of  his  love  had  thrilled 
him  and  made  him  feel  alive.  Her  fits  of  childish  rage 
had  amused  him,  just  as  in  the  old  days.  Besides,  he 


152          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

could  always  bring  her  to  time  by  leaving  her  for  a 
while.  The  sense  of  power  was  pleasant.  But  the 
monotony  of  its  exertion  was  beginning  to  weary  him. 

To-night  she  would  be  very  insistent.  From  the 
first  warm  days  of  spring  she  had  been  begging  him  to 
go  for  a  week  to  the  Portuguese  ranch  and  Herrick  did 
not  want  to  go.  She  had  been  through  almost  all  her 
bag  of  tricks.  She  had  been  the  petted,  teasing  child, 
the  angry  woman,  the  commanding  mistress.  There 
was  one  left.  To-night  she  would  be  the  alluring,  giv- 
ing-all,  asking-nothing  lover.  For  that  reason  she  had 
chosen  a  new  setting.  In  the  isolation  of  the  Syrian 
restaurant  they  would  be  alone.  She  would  wear  the 
dress  he  liked  best,  a  thin,  black  clinging  thing,  and 
a  hat  that  threw  kind  shadows  on  the  small  face. 
Against  the  background  of  sawdust  floor,  of  strange, 
dark  men  who  came  to  eat,  she  would  stand  out,  fragile 
and  completely  his. 

Jean  saw  the  hesitation,  the  uncertainty  in  his  eyes. 

"Never  mind,  if  you  have  another  engagement.  I'll 
go  down  to  the  delicatessen  and  get  something.  I  don't 
suppose  there's  anything  in  the  house  to  eat." 

Jean  smiled.  She  couldn't  help  thinking  of  Martha 
and  what  a  heinous  crime  it  would  be  to  have  a  house 
and  nothing  to  eat  in  it. 

"We  aren't  very  good  housekeepers,  are  we?" 

"No,  there's  nothing;  but  the  shops  aren't  closed 
yet.  It  would  be  rather  nice  to  eat  here.'* 

After  all  there  was  a  touch  of  excitement  in  being 
invited  to  picnic  unexpectedly  with  one's  own  wife. 

"I  was  only  going  to  eat  with  Crane.  He's  been 
taking  the  cure  again  and  isn't  quite  sure  of  himself. 
He  hates  to  eat  alone.  I'll  'phone  him  and  bring  some 
stuff  up  with  me." 

Herrick  ran  whistling  down  the  stairs. 

The  Kitten  was  angry  and  Herrick  was  very  tender. 
But  it  couldn't  be  helped.  Crane  was  his  boss  and  if 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          153 

he  would  have  delirium  tremens  at  inconvenient 
moments,  there  was  nothing  that  Herrick  could  do 
about  it.  Herrick  was  patient.  He  called  her  soft 
love  names  and  promised  a  week  at  the  Portuguese 
ranch.  The  Kitten  relented.  She  was  reasonable.  She 
understood.  She  said  low,  sweet  things  that  came 
lightly  across  the  wire  and  touched  Herrick  in  a  caress. 

Herrick  and  Jean  got  supper  together.  The  strange 
ness  of  doing  this  once  familiar  thing  made  them  a 
little  shy.  They  sought  for  things  to  say  that  would 
not  show  the  realization  of  this  strangeness.  The  sen 
sation  was  new  and  exquisite  to  Herrick.  It  was  preg 
nant  with  possibility.  He  mashed  potatoes  vigorously 
and  sensed  a  possible  new  relationship  waiting  beyond 
the  interlude  of  supper.  What  it  might  be  he  did  not 
know.  He  did  not  want  to  know.  He  was  tired  of 
moods  that  he  understood,  reactions  that  he  could 
bring  about  at  a  touch.  To-night  he  had  no  wish  to 
rouse  Jean  to  the  depths  of  physical  passion  that  had 
been  his  aim  in  the  old  days  when  they  had  gotten 
supper  together.  It  was  not  in  her,  and  to-night  he 
did  not  care.  He  was  weary  of  storms,  smothered  at 
moments  beyond  endurance  by  the  clinging  of  The 
Kitten's  arms.  He  would  leave  everything  to  Jean. 
He  would  do  nothing,  lead  nowhere,  make  no  effort. 
He  would  follow,  drugged  to  a  sensuous  peace  by  his 
own  inaction. 

When  the  things  were  cooked,  Herrick  laid  the  cloth 
at  the  end  of  the  big  table  in  the  studio.  He  brought 
up  a  chair  for  Jean  and  with  a  flourish  handed  her  to 
it.  He  was  like  a  boy  starting  on  a  new  trip,  happy 
and  excited.  And,  as  always,  Herrick  looked  the  part. 
His  whole  body  seemed  keyed  to  a  greater  physical 
firmness.  His  eyes  had  the  light  that  had  been  in 
them  so  often  when  they  used  to  eat  their  sandwiches 
in  the  rock  coves  by  the  sea. 

Jean  saw  and  wondered  and  felt  unsure.     Was   it 


154         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

her  own  blind,  sweeping  judgments  that  had  stripped 
Herrick  of  all  that  of  which  she  had  once  been  so  sure? 
To-night  he  looked  and  felt  as  he  had  on  the  night  he 
had  told  her  of  his  lonely  boyhood  and  she  had  held  out 
her  hands  to  him.  Hadn't  she  changed  at  all  since  the 
days  when  she  and  Pat  had  settled  the  questions  of 
which  they  knew  nothing?  Did  she  still  sit  off  on  her 
cloud  and  play  her  golden  flute  while  people  struggled 
along  in  the  dust  below?  Did  she? 

Jean  talked  of  Crane,  the  pity  of  his  wasted  days, 
while  the  shuttle  of  analysis  wove  back  and  forth  in 
memory,  behind  her  words.  Had  she  condemned  as 
lack  of  purpose  and  sincerity  what,  after  all,  might 
well  be  a  concomitant  of  that  very  sweetness  and  boy 
ishness  that  had  called  to  her?  It  was  that  which  had 
called,  Jean  was  very  sure.  And  the  claiming  hands 
that  were  always  trying  to  hold  her,  to  touch  her  when 
she  was  near,  the  hunger  of  Herrick's  kiss?  It  was 
the  groping  of  a  child  that  didn't  want  to  be  alone. 

They  ate  slowly  and  sat  on  after  the  last  drop  of 
coffee  was  drained  from  the  percolator.  Herrick  had 
asked  Jean  about  the  pamphlet  and  was  helping  her 
with  details  of  publishing  and  distribution.  With  a 
paper  and  pencil  he  was  making  calculations,  while 
Jean  leaned  across  the  table,  her  elbows  on  the  cloth, 
her  chin  in  her  palms.  She  and  Dr.  Mary  had  gone 
over  this  ground  but  she  saw  instantly  that  Herrick 
knew  much  more  about  it  than  they  did.  It  amused 
Jean,  this  new  humility  that  met  her  at  every  turn  to 
night. 

"I  guess  there  are  some  things,  just  a  few,  that  men 
can  do  best."  And  she  chuckled  in  the  old,  childish 
way  that  had  always  delighted  Herrick.  It  was  such 
a  ridiculous,  delightful,  childish  chuckle  for  a  woman 
of  Jean's  size.  It  had  always  given  Herrick  in  the 
early  days  one  of  those  double  sensations,  two  con 
trasting  emotions,  that  pricked  his  sense  as  a  pungent 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          155 

spice  pricks  a  jaded  palate.  It  made  Jean  half  woman 
and  half  imp. 

The  pencil  quivered  a  little,  but  Herri ck  did  not  look 
up.  Instinct  warned  him  to  go  on  with  the  serious 
business  of  calculation. 

"There,"  he  announced,  "if  you'll  be  content  with 
just  ordinary  paper  you  ought  to  be  able  to  get  a 
thousand  for " 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  The  Kitten  came  in. 
She  stood  quite  still,  while  Herrick  sat  motionless,  the 
pencil  poised  over  the  paper,  his  lips  parted  on  the 
word.  Every  drop  of  color  left  his  face  and  then 
rushed  back  in  a  deep  red  that  swelled  the  veins  of 
his  neck  and  congested  his  eyes.  He  rose  heavily  and 
the  pencil  rolled  away  under  the  table. 

The  Kitten  closed  the  door  and  came  toward  the 
table.  A  few  feet  away  she  stopped.  Jean  noticed 
mechanically  the  scarlet  of  her  mouth  in  the  dead 
whiteness  of  her  face.  It  was  like  a  wound,  and  when 
she  spoke  her  voice  was  high  and  cutting,  like  the  crack 
ling  of  tin  that  had  torn  the  wound. 

"So  this  is  why  you  lied?"  She  looked  at  Herrick 
and  Jean's  eyes  followed.  His  flushed  face  was  heavy 
and  ugly,  and  he  looked  unspeakably  foolish,  staring 
back  with  his  lips  parted.  Jean  thought  of  her  father, 
standing  in  the  bar  of  sunlight,  and  of  her  mother 
shrinking  from  him.  In  a  strange,  unreal  calm,  she 
thought  how  odd  it  was  that  she  should  have  the  same 
picture  of  her  father  and  her  husband. 

She  rose,  with  a  detached  feeling  of  not  belonging 
here  and  at  the  same  time  of  being  called  on  to  do 
something,  perform  some  unpleasant  social  duty,  that 
should  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  the  hostess,  who  wasn't 
herself  at  all. 

"We've  just  finished  dinner,"  she  said  quietly,  "and 
there's  not  a  thing  left.  But  I  can  make  you  some 
coffee." 


156         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

The  Kitten  turned  from  Herrick  and  looked  at  her 
directly.  The  heavy  lids  lowered  and  her  eyes  went 
slowly  from  the  crown  of  Jean's  head  to  her  feet,  in  a 
look  that  drew  Jean's  body  after  it  into  the  mire. 

Jean  stepped  back  quickly.  There  was  no  pretense 
or  misunderstanding-  now. 

The  Kitten  grinned.  "Didn't  you  know  it,  really? 
t  was  always  sure  you  guessed.  It's  been  such  a  long 
time  before  you — even." 

Clearest  of  all  the  thoughts  whirling  in  Jean's  brain 
fras  the  knowledge  that  she  felt  no  anger,  nor  was  she 
stunned.  With  no  warning  this  thing  had  come  upon 
her  and  there  was  no  slightest  doubt  in  her.  Instead, 
there  was  a  kind  of  relief,  grotesque  but  real,  and  as  if 
she  had  discovered  at  last  the  source  of  some  annoy 
ance  that  had  long  puzzled  her.  Her  brain  seemed  to 
be  running  in  layers,  streams  of  thought  all  perfectly 
distinct.  One  layer  was  concerned  with  herself  and 
Herrick,  from  the  first  night  they  had  eaten  with  The 
Bunch  and  The  Kitten  had  stared  so  rudely  across 
the  table.  Her  first  vivid  picture  of  The  Kitten  had 
been  across  a  table  and  now  she  was  seeing  her  again 
across  a  table.  And  another  stream  bore  Herrick 
apart  from  The  Bunch,  alone  with  her  in  the  days  be 
fore  their  marriage,  and  the  things  she  had  believed 
and  the  things  that  had  really  been  true.  There  was 
a  stream  for  Herrick  and  herself  running  through  the 
last  eighteen  months,  with  all  sorts  of  landmarks  com 
ing  to  the  surface.  And  there  was  the  stream  of  her 
own  present  calm,  with  the  feeling  that  it  was  impos 
sible  that  she  should  feel  this  way,  that  it  must  be  a 
false  strength  which  would  fail  in  a  moment  and  leave 
her  at  the  mercy  of  this  woman  with  the  white  face 
and  the  scarlet  mouth  and  the  malicious  eyes  under 
their  lowered  lids. 

"No,"  Jean  said,  "I  didn't  know."     The  calm  was 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          157 

broken  for  a  moment  by  a  spark  of  cold  anger  at  the 
insincerity  of  the  question,  or  its  implication. 

The  Kitten  shrugged  and  turned  to  Herrick.  She 
was  trembling  with  anger  now  and  it  made  her  look 
like  a  fierce,  small  animal  at  bay. 

Jean's  calm  was  swept  aside  in  a  wave  of  physical 
nausea.  She  could  not  stand  there  and  see  them 
quarrel.  She  moved  to  Herrick. 

"Will  you  go?     Please  go.     Quick!    Now!" 

"If  you  wish."  Grotesque  in  his  consideration,  piti 
ful  in  his  relief,  Herrick  went.  They  heard  his  step 
echo  and  die  in  the  silence  below. 

Jean  and  The  Kitten  stood  looking  at  each  other. 
Before  Jean's  calm,  The  Kitten's  anger  crumbled;. 
Jean  went  slowly  back  to  her  place  at  the  table  and 
sat  down  again.  Her  brain  seemed  the  only  living 
thing  about  her.  She  had  a  problem  to  solve,  but  the 
problem  concerned  the  woman  before  her  more  than  it 
concerned  herself.  There  was  something  she  was  going 
to  do,  but  she  couldn't  do  it  until  she  had  talked  to 
The  Kitten,  and  she  didn't  know  just  how  to  begin. 
She  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  palms,  as  she  had  sat  while 
Herrick  made  calculations  about  the  cost  of  the 
pamphlet. 

"Didn't  you  really  know?"  It  was  The  Kitten  who 
broke  the  silence  at  last.  "He  always  said  you  didn't, 
but  I  never  believed  it." 

"Did  you  think  that  I  would  have  gone  on  just  the 
same?" 

"I  didn't  know.  You  never  loved  him.  What  dif 
ference  would  it  make?"  The  Kitten  waited  a  moment 
and  added  more  kindly,  as  if  she  were  making  some 
thing  very  clear  to  a  child.  "Vicky  has  loved  other 
women;  he's  always  having  an  affair  of  some  kind,  and 
I  don't  say  anything.  You  see,  I  don't  love  him." 

Jean  did  not  move.     She  sat  rigid  as  if  the  least 


158          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

movement  would  precipitate  her  into  the  abyss  The 
Kitten  was  opening  before  her. 

"You  thought  I  knew — and — would  go  on  just  the 
same?" 

The  thing  rose,  a  barricade  to  further  thought. 
Jean  tried  *to  get  by  it,  push  it  aside,  go  on  to  the  end, 
but  somehow  she  could  not  get  any  further.  She  was 
living  in  a  world,  among  people  who  believed  things 
like  that.  Men  and  women  lived  that  way.  People 
she  knew  lived  that  way.  Not  "cases,"  but  friends, 
people  she  had  eaten  with,  to  whose  houses  she  had 
gone,  people  whom  she  had  been  anxious  to  meet  once, 
friends  of  her  husband,  of  the  man  she  had  married. 

Jean  closed  her  eyes.  It  made  her  sick,  physically 
sick  to  look  at  the  little  figure  across  the  table,  the 
hungry,  contemptuous  eyes,  the  fine  lines  etched  by 
unsatisfied  desire  in  the  smooth  skin.  They  did  not 
belong  in  the  same  world,  they  did  not  speak  the  same 
language,  and  there  they  sat  in  Jean's  home,  at  Jean's 
table,  and  talked  of  Jean's  husband. 

"You  needn't  look  at  me  like  that."  The  Kitten 
leaned  across  the  table,  so  near  that  Jean  saw  clearly 
the  smooth  texture  of  her  skin  and  the  flecks  of  black 
in  her  eyes.  "I  don't  see  that  you  have  such  a  lot  to 
be  proud  of.  I  loved  Franklin,  I  have  always  loved 
him,  long  before  you  came  into  his  life  at  all.  I  loved 
him  and  I  gave.  You  don't  love  him ;  you  never  did, 
and  yet  you  married  him.  You  took.  You  sold  your 
self  for  what?  So  you  wouldn't  have  to  teach  school, 
to  get  away  from  that  bromide  mother,  the  whole 
monotonous  round!  A  great  motive,  wasn't  it?  Oh, 
he's  told  me  all  about  it!" 

She  spoke  in  quick,  panting  breaths,  as  if  the  words 
were  coming  faster  than  she  could  utter  them.  Jean 
felt  as  if  little  pallets  of  mud  were  being  flung  in  her 
face.  She  moved  now,  pushing  her  chair  away. 

The  Kitten  laughed.     "Oh,  don't  mind  me,  you  can 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          159 

go  clear  over  to  the  end  of  the  room  if  you  like.  You 
have  always  acted  like  that,  you  know.  It  amused  us 
terribly  at  first.  You  were  so  funny !  You  tried  so 
hard  to  be  nice  to  me  and  The  Tiger  and  the  rest  of 
us,  but  you  couldn't  quite  make  it,  could  you?  We 
were  so  awfully  muddy  and  you  were  so  clean.  Clean ! 
Good  God,  you're  not  clean,  you're  empty.  Why,  I 
wouldn't  be  you,  you  cold,  dead  thing,  not  for  all  the 
pain  it  would  save  me.  You " 

Jean  rose.  The  mud  no  longer  came  in  pellets;  it 
flowed,  a  black,  sticky  stream. 

"I  think  you  have  said  enough.  After  all,  there 
really  is  nothing  to  be  said." 

She  came  slowly  about  the  table  and  stood  before 
The  Kitten.  She  could  almost  hear  the  beating  of 
The  Kitten's  heart,  under  the  stubby  hands  pressed 
so  tightly  over  it. 

"Well,"  demanded  The  Kitten,  "what  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"Do?"  echoed  Jean  blankly.  "Why,  I'm  going 
away." 

"You're  going  away !  You're  going  to  give  him  up, 
without  any  more  fight  than  this!  You're  going  to 
swallow  every  single  thing  I've  said,  without  asking 
him?  I  say,  how  do  you  know  it's  the  truth?  How 
do  you  know  it's  not  all  a  lie,  except  my  loving  him?" 

"I  don't  know,"  but  as  she  spoke  Jean  felt  some 
thing  drop  from  her  eyes.  With  no  warning  this 
thing  had  come  upon  her  and  there  was  no  doubt  in 
her.  Like  the  sucking  blackness  at  the  bottom  of  the 
well,  it  had  always  been  there. 

The  Kitten  smiled.  "He  must  have  had  a  hell  of  a 
time  with  you.  Poor  Boy  Blue." 

Mechanically  Jean  put  on  her  things,  the  things 
she  had  thrown  down  when  she  came  in  and  found 
Herri ck  just  leaving.  It  was  queer  to  put  them  on 
again,  the  things  that  had  not  changed  at  all,  while 


160         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

she  had  been  on  such  a  long  journey  and  come  back. 
The  Kitten  was  watching,  fascinated  into  silence  by 
the  ordinary  movements  of  Jean  pinning  on  her  hat, 
gathering  up  her  gloves  and  handbag.  When  she  was 
quite  ready,  Jean  turned  to  The  Kitten.  She  felt  no 
anger  or  disgust  now.  Instead,  she  was  sorry  for  the 
little  thing,  so  eager,  so  avid,  so  unsure.. 

"You  can  tell  him,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  I  shall 
be  at  the  Hill  House.  I  don't  want  him  to  come. 
Please  tell  him  that.  But  if  there's  anything  to  be 
discussed,  he  can  write.  I  don't  see  what  it  can  be, 
but  I  suppose  he  will  want  to." 

"Oh,  yes,  he'll  write." 

Then,  for  no  reason  at  all,  the  two  women  smiled 
faintly,  as  if  they  were  speaking  of  a  child.  And, 
always  afterward,  Jean  remembered  The  Kitten  as 
she  looked  smiling  above  the  greasy  dishes. 


PART  II 


PART  II 
CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

JEAN  touched  the  electric  button  on  her  desk  and 
Josephine  Grimes  appeared  with  notebook  and  pen 
cil.  She  was  a  tall,  spare  woman,  impelled  through 
life  by  devotion  to  an  invalid  sister,  to  the  Charity 
Organization  Society  of  New  York  City,  and  to  Jean. 
The  three  were  somehow  connected  in  Miss  Grimes' 
mind  and  she  never  tried  to  separate  them. 

Jean  handed  her  a  pile  of  mail.  "All  the  regular 
thing,  except  that  one  on  top.  That's  very  extra  spe 
cial.  It's  from  Gregory  Allen,  the  architect  Selina 
Mitchell  thinks  might  be  interested  in  the  tubercular 
tenements.  He  says  he'd  like  to  talk  things  over.  So 
write  him,  conveying  something  between  abject  grati 
tude  and  decent  self-respect,  and  make  it  to-morrow 
at  3.30." 

Miss  Grimes  nodded  and  turned  to  the  door.  She 
never  made  any  comment  on  these  semi-personal  con 
fidences  from  Jean,  but  at  night  they  were  retailed 
verbatim  to  the  invalid  sister. 

"And  tell  any  one  who  rings  up  that  I  won't  be 
back  to-day,  but,  under  pain  of  death,  don't  give  them 
the  house  number.  Except  Rachael  Cohen.  But  I 
don't  think  she  will,  because  she  knows  I  know  about  the 
meeting  to-morrow  night  and  I'll  be  there." 

Again  Miss  Grimes  nodded  and  disappeared.  Jean 
sat  on  at  the  desk  for  a  few  moments,  smiling  into 
space.  Then  she  locked  the  lid  with  a  snap,  put  on 
her  hat  without  looking  into  the  glass,  snatched  her 

163 


164         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

gloves  and  black  leather  wallet  and  left  the  office  for 
the  Grand  Central  Station. 

The  train  was  just  pulling  in,  as  Jean  elbowed  her 
way  through  the  waiting  crowd,  pressed  close  to  the 
iron  grille.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  people  in  the  world 
went  by  before  she  saw  her,  the  same  stout  figure,  the 
same  eager  peering  through  the  gold  pince-nez.  Jean 
waved  frantically.  Mary  stopped,  stared  for  a  re 
assuring  second,  dropped  her  grip  and  came  at  a  trot, 
calling  back  over  her  shoulders  to  the  bewildered  red 
cap  to  pick  it  up. 

"Mary— oh— you " 

"Not  a  word  or  I  shall  weep.  Lead  me  to  the  de 
cent  seclusion  of  a  cab.  I  haven't  wanted  to  cry  for 
thirty  years." 

Safe  in  a  taxi,  they  looked  at  each  other  and 
laughed. 

"Mary,  I  haven't  been  able  to  do  a  thing  since  I 
got  your  wire.  Why  didn't  you  write  me?" 

"Didn't  know  it  myself.  I  just  woke  up  one  morn 
ing  with  such  a  heavy  feeling  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach 
when  I  looked  at  Lucy  Phillips  that  I  knew  the  hour 
Jhad  come.  I  took  a  leave  of  absence  for  a  year  and 
I  may  extend  it.  I'm  going  to  absorb  and  study  what 
the  rest  of  the  world's  been  doing.  In  short,  I'm  going 
to  stay  until  I  love  Lucy  Phillips.  I  was  going  to 
make  my  point  of  saturation  Chicago,  until  I  got  to 
really  visioning  you.  Then  I  wired.  I  couldn't  very 
well  before,  could  I?" 

"Hardly."  Jean  hugged  her.  "Mary,  it's  been  an 
age.  I  don't  believe  I've  known,  myself,  how  much  and 
how  often  I've  wanted  you." 

"I  was  thinking  about  it  the  other  night.  Almost 
seven  years  since  you  came  walking  into  the  clinic 
and  told  me  Th^e  Kitten  was  up  at  the  studio  and  you 
weren't  going  back." 

"And  mummy  trotted  over  the  next  afternoon,  and 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          165 

when  she  found  we'd  both  gone  to  keep  our  engage 
ment  with  that  Building  Trades  man  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  she  sat  down  and  cried.  Poor  little  mum 
my." 

"How  is  mummy,  Jean?  I  never  could  quite  picture 
her  here  in  New  York.  I  could  never  make  her  fit." 

"Fits  like  a  glove.  But,  then,  no  one  can  ever  tell 
what  mummy  is  going  to  do.  She  not  only  likes  it, 
but  is  happy,  really  happy,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life.  I  believe  she  has  learned  the  trick  at  last." 

"Much  incense  and  lace  altar  clothes  and  Jeany  all 
to  herself,  I  take  it." 

"Pretty  near.  But  we  have  been  happy,  both  of  us, 
these  six  years  here.  Mummy  still  believes  social  serv 
ice  is  connected,  or  ought  to  be,  with  religion,  and  she 
calls  my  very  finest  pieces  of  work  'the  act  divorced 
from  the  spirit,'  but  she  lets  me  send  out  all  the 
laundry  and  have  a  woman  in  once  a  week — a  maid  she 
absolutely  forbade — and  there's  a  church  run  by 
Father  Something'-or-other  a  few  blocks  away,  and  I'd 
get  fatty  degeneration  of  the  soul  if  it  weren't  for 
Pedloe.  He  gets  six  thousand  a  year  and  poses  as  a 
radical,  but  he  has  the  imagination  of  a  mouse.  Some 
day  he's  going  to  fire  me,  if  I  don't  do  it  first  myself. 
I  work  ten  hours  a  day,  get  more  and  more  furious 
at  the  whole  business,  and  come  home  every  evening 
like  a  novice  to  her  convent.  Our  chief  excitement 
is  having  Pat  bring  the  children  over  for  the  week-end, 
when  her  husband  is  out  of  town.  She  has  two  chil 
dren  and  is  going  to  have  another,  all  in  four  years, 
exactly  like  an  immigrant.  She  hasn't  changed  a 
bit,  manages  her  family  as  if  it  were  a  college  commit 
tee  and  her  husband  adores  her.  Once  in  a  while  she 
brings  an  uncle  of  Stephen's  with  her,  a  fat,  good- 
natured  creature  about  fifty,  who,  I  sometimes  think, 
is  a  fool  and  sometimes  I'm  sure  he's  a  philosopher. 
Mummy  likes  him  and  makes  all  his  pet  dishes.  Years 


166         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

ago  he  was  married  to  an  impossible  creature  in  an 
Arizona  mining  camp  and  she  ran  away  in  six  months. 
So  you  see  he's  had  his  'sorrow'  too." 

"You  don't  mean  that  she  still  looks  on  Franklin  as 
a  'sorrow'?" 

"He's  my  'lesson.'  She  never  speaks  of  him,  but 
I  know  she  prays  for  him." 

"Good  Lord!" 

And  for  the  remaining  few  moments  of  the  drive, 
Dr.  Mary  sat  chuckling. 

"Here  we  are."  Jean  led  the  way  toward  the  cool 
marble  entrance  of  a  huge  apartment  house  facing 
the  Hudson.  Young  mothers  in  summer  white  sat  on 
camp  stools,  doing  embroidery  in  the  shade  of  the 
high  walls,  under  the  trees  that  lined  the  Drive,  and 
in  the  vacant  lot  across  the  street.  They  chatted  and 
moved  white  perambulators  with  the  tips  of  their  white 
canvas  shoes.  Fat  white  babies  slept  under  dainty 
white  coverlets.  Older  children  in  white  played  in  the 
earth. 

Dr.  Mary  stopped  in  the  vestibule.  "It  looks  like 
miles  of  them.  I've  never  seen  so  many  baby  buggies 
at  once  in  my  life." 

"Mary,  that  sight  has  done  more  to  inspire  me  with 
a  love  of  work  than  any  other  thing  I  know.  When 
ever  I  feel  like  sneaking  a  day  I  just  take  one  look 
out  there  and  jump  into  my  office  clothes." 

"I  should  think  you  might.  Do  they  keep  it  up  all 
day?" 

"All  day,  every  day,  from  spring  till  fall.  They 
must  sew  miles  of  scallops.  Wait  till  you  see  the  last 
rites.  About  six  the  husbands  come  along;  they're 
all  young  and  rather  slight,  wear  blue  serge  and  straw 
hats.  They  all  look  exactly  alike.  Each  one  detaches 
his  special  piece  of  white  property  and  off  they  go. 
Behold  the  female  backbone  of  our  nation!" 

"It  makes  me  homesick  for  my  frowsy  crab-fishers 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          167 

and  those  poor  bowlegged  mites  that  crawl  over  the 
hills  alone." 

As  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  Martha  Norris  rose 
from  her  chair  by  the  window  where  she  had  been 
reading  in  the  green-gold  light  that  slanted  up  under 
the  window  awnings.  Dr.  Mary  took  the  outstretched 
hand  in  hers. 

"I  suppose  you  were  surprised,  but  not  more  than 
I  was  myself.  When  it  came  right  down  to  it,  I  started 
at  a  moment's  notice." 

"I  know.  Jean  was  in  the  greatest  state  of  ex 
citement  yesterday  when  she  got  your  wire."  Martha 
smiled  and  it  made  the  small  face,  rested  in  the  peace 
of  the  last  six  years,  astonishingly  young.  But  she 
could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say.  There  had  always 
been  something  breathless  about  Dr.  Mary's  energy 
that  made  Martha  feel  inadequate.  Something  a  lit 
tle  indecent,  in  an  enthusiasm  and  exuberance  that 
could  carry  a  woman  well  over  fifty  across  the  conti 
nent,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to  study.  It  was  almost 
as  if  she  infringed  on  a  younger  generation,  wore  men 
tal  rouge  and  powder. 

"It's  a  frightful  journey,  especially  in  this  heat. 
You  must  be  very  tired." 

Martha  drew  a  chair  to  the  window  and  Mary 
dropped  gratefully  into  it. 

"I'll  just  make  a  cup  of  tea  and  we'll  have  cold 
supper  later." 

She  pattered  out  and  Jean  and  Mary  looked  at  each 
other  and  smiled. 

When  tea  was  ready  they  had  it  close  to  the  win 
dow  looking  to  the  Palisades.  Jean  made  valiant  ef 
forts  to  hold  Martha  in  the  talk  but  it  kept  drifting 
away  from  her,  and  soon  she  was  sitting  quietly  to  one 
side,  as  she  always  did,  listening,  while  Jean  and  Mary 
talked  and  interrupted  one  another  and  made  a  thou 
sand  plans. 


168         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"I  tell  you,  Jean,  I  was  getting  to  be  a  big  frog  in 
a  small  puddle  and  that's  not  good  for  the  soul.  I'm 
not  going  to  give  a  single  scrap  of  advice  to  a  living 
soul  for  three  months  at  least." 

Jean  patted  the  plump  shoulder.  "Croak  on,  Mary, 
croak  on.  Why,  you'll  be  taking  the  tenements  out 
of  my  hands,  if  I  don't  step  lively.  Not  to  mention 
the  garment  strike  and  Rachael  herself." 

"Never.  I  wouldn't  offer  a  suggestion  for  ten  ad 
ditional  years  of  life.  I'm  going  to  sit  to  one  side 
and  watch." 

"Mary  MacLean,  you'll  sit  to  one  side  exactly  as 
long  as  I'll  let  you — forty-eight  hours  perhaps  to  get 
rested.  And  then — Lord ;  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  asleep 
for  years.  Mary,  this  is  going  to  be  one  glorious 
summer." 

"I  have  a  slight  feeling  that  way  myself,  Jean.'* 

Martha  got  up  and  began  clearing  the  table. 

Out  in  the  kitchen,  Martha  filled  the  pan  with  hot 
soapy  water  and  began  washing  the  dishes.  The 
voices  went  on.  Once  she  stopped  to  listen. 

"Now,  Jean,  not  another  word.  Please.  I  appre 
ciate  the  offer  and  all  that,  but  I  shouldn't  do  a  thing 
but  sit  and  stare  at  that  river  and  overeat,  and  where 
would  my  serious  study  be  then?  No,  to-morrow  I 
find  an  apartment." 

Jean  laughed.  "All  right,  go  ahead,  but  you  won't 
escape  me  that  way." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Jean  added  softly: 
"Oh,  Mary,  this  is  going  to  be  a  glorious  summer." 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

A  FEW  moments  before  three-thirty  the  next  after 
noon  Jean  tidied  her  desk,  settled  Miss  Grimes 
with  enough  work  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  drew 
out  some  notes  she  had  made  for  Gregory  Allen. 

At  a  quarter  to  four  she  laid  the  notes  aside  and 
looked  at  the  clock.  At  four  she  verified  the  time  by 
the  big  clock  in  the  Metropolitan  Tower. 

"Rather  rude,  to  say  the  least." 

At  four-thirty  she  rose  impatiently,  moved  to  the 
outer  office,  changed  her  mind  and  came  back  again  to 
her  desk. 

"It  costs  a  nickel  and  takes  two  minutes  to  'phone. 
If  he's  that  kind  of  a  person,  I  don't  want  him  mixed 
up  in  the  thing  at  all.  He  needn't  have  answered  my 
note  if  he  isn't  interested." 

Jean  looked  over  the  notes  again,  and  when  she 
laid  them  aside  for  the  second  time  it  was  almost  five. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned.     If " 

The  outer  door  opened,  a  man's  voice  asked  for 
Mrs.  Herrick  and  Josephine  Grimes  appeared.  He 
stood  close  behind  her.  Without  waiting  to  hear 
whether  he  was  to  be  received,  he  stepped  into  the 
room. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you  waiting,  but  I  hope  it 
hasn't  been  too  inconvenient."  The  tone  implied,  how 
ever,  that  it  would  not  trouble  him  very  much  if  it 
had. 

Jean  wanted  to  say  that  it  had  been  very  incon 
venient,  but  in  view  of  the  fact  that  he  had  arrived,  she 
said  she  was  glad  he  had  not  been  detained  altogether 

169 


170          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  sat  down  again  at  the  desk.  Gregory  Allen  took 
the  chair  opposite  and  stretched  out  his  feet,  as  if  he 
were  used  to  making  himself  as  comfortable  as  he 
could.  He  was  a  tall  man,  about  forty,  with  thick, 
dry,  brown  hair,  full  of  reddish  lights,  and  red- 
brown  eyes.  His  face  and  neck  and  hands  were  tanned 
as  if  he  were  a  great  deal  in  the  open,  and  the  hands 
were  long,  bony  and  nervous.  They  seemed  to  ex 
press  something  hidden  deep  in  the  rather  slouchy 
figure,  under  the  ready-made  suit  that  looked  rumpled, 
although  Jean  saw  that  it  was  really  quite  new.  His 
shoes  were  not  well  shined  and  his  tie  did  not  strike 
the  note  of  the  tanned  skin  and  reddish  hair. 

He  made  no  further  explanation  of  why  he  had  been 
detained  and  sat  silent,  waiting  for  Jean  to  begin. 
Jean  wished  he  would  say  ^something  to  give  her  a 
better  clew  to  his  mental  makeup,  but  as  he  didn't 
she  plunged  in. 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Allen,  how  much  you  know  about 
conditions  among  the  poor,  or  whether  you  are  spe 
cially  interested  in  them.  I  think  you  would  rather 
have  to  be,  to  take  any  joy  in  this  work  at  all,  there 
are  so  many  restrictions." 

Jean  spoke  as  if  she  were  handling  an  obstinate 
committee  member,  and  Gregory  Allen  smiled  behind 
his  eyes.  But  the  smile  did  not  come  through.  Ac 
customed  to  classifying  people  in  terms  of  architec 
ture,  he  decided  that  Jean  was  like  a  tower,  an  old 
Roman  tower,  rugged,  firm  on  its  base,  built  for  a 
purpose  and  for  the  accomplishment  of  it.  Whatever 
charm  there  might  be  would  come  from  perfect  accord 
between  form  and  purpose.  He  nodded. 

"Not  so  much  a  restriction  in  finances,"  Jean  went 
on,  "but  restrictions  imposed  by  the  condition  of  the 
tenants.  You  see,  the  plan  is  this :  thousands  of 
people,  right  here  in  Manhattan,  die  yearly  for  lack 
of  air  and  sunlight.  Literally  thousands  of  incipient 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          171 

cases  of  tuberculosis,  and  those  in  the  earlier  stages, 
die  because  of  their  living  conditions,  die  needlessly. 
There  is  all  the  sunlight  and  air  in  the  universe  right 
here.  It  is  only  a  question  of  being  able  to  get  it." 

Jean  paused,  but  Gregory  Allen,  said  nothing.  He 
did  not  know  how  many  people  died  in  New  York 
for  need  of  air  and  sun,  but  now  that  he  thought  of  it, 
supposed  quite  a  number.  Jean  seemed  very  positive 
about  it,  and  he  saw  no  reason  to  comment. 

Jean  felt  like  shaking  him,  and,  turning  slightly 
away,  made  aimless  lines  on  the  desk  blotter  as  she 
continued. 

"There  is  also  a  lot  of  vacant  land,  doing  no  good 
to  anybody,  just  where  we  want  it.  The  problem  is 
to  get  it,  but,  of  course,  you  would  not  be  concerned 
with  that,  but  only  to  put  up  a  building  for  the  sole 
use  of  families  in  which  there  is  any  one  either  with, 
or  threatened  with,  tuberculosis.  I  don't  want  a  con 
tractor  who  thinks  that  anything  is  good  enough  for 
the  poor.  And  I  don't  want  an  architect  who  doesn't 
grasp  the  spirit  of  it,  either." 

He  might  just  as  well  get  the  situation  straight 
to  begin  with. 

Gregory  Allen  wondered  whether  Jean  always  enun 
ciated  her  purposes  so  emphatically,  rather  as  if  sht 
were  firing  small  shot  at  a  target.  She  was  decidedly 
like  a  Roman  tower,  part  of  a  fortification.  Amplify 
ing  his  own  figure,  he  scarcely  noticed  Jean's  pause 
for  his  comment,  nor  did  he  notice  the  frown  as  she 
continued. 

"And  in  addition  to  this,  the  building  must  be  as 
beautiful  as  it  can  be  made,  beautiful  even  to  details 
that  may  seem  finicky,  in  tone  and  line  and  tint.  These 
people,  besides  being  stricken  in  body,  have  been 
cramped  in  soul,  too,  most  of  them,  until  they  don't 
know  there  is  any  beauty  in  the  world.  Or,  worse, 
they  don't  believe  that  it  is  for  them.  As  one  woman 


172         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

told  me,  not  long  ago:  'there  ain't  no  free  beauty  no 
where.'  Well,  we  are  going  to  give  it  to  them,  all  we 
can  possibly  give.  It  will  take  a  lot  of  time  and  there's 
not  a  cent  in  it.  It  will  lead  to  nothing  else.  It  is 
just  a  gift,  the  most  beautiful  gift  you  can  make, 
within  the  bounds  of  our  funds.'* 

"What  are  the  bounds?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

A  smile  darted  from  Gregory  Allen's  eyes  to  his 
lips,  and  settled  there.  During  his  student  days  at 
the  Beaux  Arts,  a  grisette  had  told  Gregory  that  his 
smile  flitted  like  "un  petit  oiseau"  over  his  face  and 
then  flew  out  of  his  mouth.  Jean  did  not  call  it  "a 
little  bird"  but  she  liked  it. 

"Of  course  we  can't  go  ahead  without  rime  or 
reason,  but  we  don't  have  to  stick  too  close  to  reason 
either.  They  are  to  be  as  beautiful  as  possible,  allow 
ing  for  reductions  if  we  don't  raise  quite  as  much  as 
we  hope,  and  extension  if  we  do.  That's  possible,  isn't 
it?" 

"Certainly.  I  take  it  there  is  to  be  a  minimum  of 
beauty  below  which  you  will  not  sink,  but  you're  going 
to  leave  the  roof  off  and  soar  as  high  as  you  can." 

"Exactly."  Jean  laughed,  and  Gregory  added  a  ray 
of  sun  slanting  across  the  tower.  There  was  a  pause. 
Was  he  interested,  or  wasn't  he? 

"Well,"  she  demanded  at  last,  "does  it  appeal?" 

Gregory  Allen  looked  at  her  sharply.  He  wondered 
whether,  sometimes,  she  did  not  pose  a  little.  If  he 
had  not  been  interested  by  Jean's  first  note  he  would 
not  have  come,  would  not  have  answered  the  note, 
probably. 

"Of  course.  That's  why  I  came,  to  talk  over  the 
details.  I  made  a  hurried  sketch  after  your  note,  just 
a  ground  floor  plan,  but  I  don't  think  now  it  will  do." 
He  drew  a  blueprint  from  his  pocket  and  smoothed  it 
on  the  desk.  "This,  followed  out,  would  give  plenty 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          173 

of  light   and   sunshine,   but   there  wouldn't   be   much 
beauty  about  it." 

There  she  had  sat  wondering  why  he  had  come,  and 
all  the  time  he  had  this  blueprint  in  his  pocket! 

"He's  too  simple  to  be  out  alone,  or  else  a  dyed-in- 
the-wool  egotist  who  expects  every  one  to  read  his 
thoughts." 

Jean  was  still  concerned  with  the  problem  as  she 
bent  over  the  plan,  following  the  line  of  Gregory's 
pencil  while  he  explained. 

"You  see,  it's  not  much  more  than  an  improved  tene 
ment,  this  way,  a  well-ventilated,  all-outside-rooms 
box."  He  tore  the  print  across  and  threw  the  pieces 
into  the  waste-basket.  "I'll  work  up  something  else 
and  let  you  know  as  soon  as " 

The  door  opened  and  Dr.  Mary  rushed  in. 

"Found  it,  the  only  place  in  New  York  worth  living 
in.  Got  it,  moved  into  it,  maid  goes  with  the  furnish 
ings,  and  dinner's  almost  ready.  For  Heaven's  sake, 
hurry  up!" 

Then  Gregory  Allen  came  into  range  of  the  doc 
tor's  near-sighted  eyes,  and  she  stopped. 

"Mary,  let  me  present  Gregory  Allen,  who  is  going 
to  draw  plans  for  the  T.B.'s.  Mr.  Allen,  Dr.  Mac- 
Lean." 

Dr.  Mary  offered  both  hands.  "One's  for  manners, 
the  other  for  gratitude." 

"Mary,  you  couldn't  possibly  have  found  an  apart 
ment  in  one  day."  Jean  turned  to  Gregory.  "Dr. 
MacLean  only  arrived  from  California  yesterday.  She 
has  never  lived  in  New  York  and  didn't  know  what  part 
of  town  she  wanted." 

"Can't  be  done.  Impossible.  I  know.  Once  every 
three  years  my  wife  finds  our  apartment  impossible  and 
we  house  hunt." 

Gregory  smiled  his  petit  oiseau  smile  and  Dr.  Mary 
accepted  him  on  the  spot. 


174         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"All  right.  Then  I  include  you  in  this  evening's 
dinner.  Come  and  see  for  yourself.  Can  you?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted." 

Dr.  Mary  in  the  lead,  they  left  the  office. 

Gregory  felt  as  if  he  were  on  a  mischievous  ad 
venture. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

IN  winter  Gregory  Allen  always  looked  forward  to 
summer,  except  for  missing  Puck,  as  a  rest  from 
the  weary  round  of  Margaret's  enthusiasms,  her 
uninteresting  friends,  and  the  boring  parties  to  which 
he  went  because  it  was  less  trouble  to  go  than  to  fuss 
about  not  going.  During  the  winter  he  never  made 
any  close  friends,  but  always  thought  he  might  do  so 
in  the  summer.  And  then,  after  the  first  few  weeks 
of  freedom  to  come  and  go  as  he  pleased,  he  began  to 
miss  Puck  with  her  long,  serious  discussions  of  the 
doings  of  Lady  Jane,  and  the  well-managed  house.  In 
these  moods  he  went  to  the  club  of  Beaux  Arts  gradu 
ates,  knowing  beforehand  that  it  would  be  no  more 
interesting  than  either  of  the  other  two  clubs  to  which 
he  belonged.  But  he  always  felt  that  something  inter 
esting  ought  to  develop,  although  it  never  did.  The 
members  who  frequented  it  were  men  like  himself, 
neither  rich  nor  famous  nor  pushed  out  of  the  race, 
comfortable,  moderately  successful  financially,  with 
modest  summer  homes  on  Long  Island,  to  which  they 
sent  their  families  from  May  to  September.  They  had 
all  adjusted  their  lives  as  he  had,  and  beyond  the  round 
of  their  work,  were  as  unmagnetic  as  the  routine  of 
their  days.  They  all  accepted  each  other  as  they 
were,  and  believed  they  were  common-sense,  practical 
men. 

As  for  women,  Gregory  met  very  few  in  the  course 
of  his  work;  and,  once  relieved  from  his  duty  as  Mar 
garet's  husband  to  the  members  of  The  Fortnightly, 
he  could  no  more  imagine  looking  any  of  them  up  dur- 

175 


176         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

ing  the  summer,  even  if  they  had  been  in  town,  than 
he  could  have  picked  up  a  stray  companion  of  the 
streets  and  spent  a  pleasant  evening  in  some  crowded 
dance-hall.  He  could  no  more  imagine  meeting  Caroline 
Ainsworth  or  Mabel  Dawson  on  the  street  and  going 
home  to  dinner  with  them,  than  he  could  imagine  doing 
something  careless  and  impromptu  with  Margaret. 
Gregory  smiled  as  he  pictured  himself  walking  off  with 
Mabel  Dawson  or  Caroline  Ainsworth. 

At  Nineteenth  Street  the  doctor  turned  east,  crossed 
Gramercy  Park  and  stopped  before  an  old  brownstone 
front  on  the  north  side. 

"Here  we  are."  They  followed  through  a  wide,  cool 
hall,  flagged  in  black  and  white  marble,  to  a  huge  door 
on  the  right.  Dr.  Mary  threw  it  open  and  swept  them 
in  with  a  flourish. 

"There,  you  doubting  Thomases.  Not  so  bad,  is 
it?" 

Gregory  and  Jean  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"Mary,  I'm  glad  I  didn't  bet  you  that  set  of  Dos 
toievsky.  I  would  have  been  broke  for  a  month." 

"As  long  as  you  are  repentant  now,  I  won't  crow. 
Dinner  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  I'll  hurry  it 
up." 

Like  the  hall,  the  room  was  high,  cool  and  dim.  The 
heavy,  tapestried  furniture  seemed  built  for  the  ample 
Dutch  forms  that  had  no  doubt  once  inhabited  it.  It 
was  impossible  to  imagine  raucous  voices  or  useless 
rush  between  these  lofty  walls. 

"It's  the  only  real  bit  of  Old  New  York  left,"  Greg 
ory  said,  and  with  one  accord  they  moved  to  the  wide 
window  looking  down  on  the  Park. 

The  rumble  of  the  Third  Avenue  El,  two  blocks 
away,  threw  into  sharp  relief  the  spirit  of  the  past, 
the  old,  unhurried  past  that  hangs  over  Gramercy 
Park.  Behind  the  scratched  and  rusted  palings,  the 
dusty  trees  stood  aloof,  superior  to  the  hustle  and 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  177 

roar  of  the  great  tide  washing  its  borders;  faithful 
to  dead  standards,  tolerant  of  the  rented  keys  that 
now  open  the  gates,  to  the  ever-changing  stream  of 
tenants  that  flows  in  and  out  of  the  brownstone  fronts, 
once  the  stately  homes  of  unhurrying  men. 

"It  is  a  bit  of  the  past,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  It  always  makes  me  think  of  an  old  French 
marquise,  stiff,  powdered,  poor,  but  never  forgetting. 
Here,  like  this." 

He  took  a  scrap  of  paper  from  his  pocket  and  drew, 
with  a  few  strokes,  a  marquise  of  the  older  days. 

"But  you  see,  she  has  to  make  some  concessions, 
while  she  waits  here,  year  after  year,  for  the  return  of 

the  Bourbons,  and  so "  Gregory  clapped  upon 

her  head  a  hat,  just  a  little  bedraggled  and  over- 
trimmed.  "The  Spirit  of  the  Present.  She  bought  it 
at  a  bargain.** 

"Oh,  Mary!" 

"No.  Don't,  please."  Gregory  tore  up  the  paper 
in  such  discomfort  that  Jean  wanted  to  pat  him  on 
the  shoulder  and  say:  "There,  there." 

"What?"  Mary  peered  in  through  the  door. 

"When  is  that  food  coming?" 

"In  a  moment."     Mary  disappeared. 

Gregory  looked  at  Jean  and  they  laughed  again. 
"Thanks,"  he  said. 

Until  dessert  the  talk  was  general,  mostly  of  the 
great  strike  of  garment  workers,  and  of  Rachael  Cohen, 
the  leader. 

"She  is  literally  like  a  flame.  And  her  people  follow 
her  blindly.  They  will  win  or  lose  by  Rachael." 

"Why  lose?" 

"They  won't.  They  can't.  But,  the  man  whom 
Rachael  loves,  hates  her  people,  her  power,  everything 
about  Ray  that  makes  her  what  she  is,  and  yesterday 
Tom  Dillon  gave  her  the  choice  of  leading  this  thing — 
think  of  it,  fifty  thousand  people — and  winning,  be- 


178         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

cause  Rachael  mil  win,  and  a  little  house  in  the  Bronx 
with  some  chickens  and,  I  believe,  a  baby  for  good 
measure." 

"Poor  girl,"  Mary  said  sadly.  "Jean,  do  you  re 
member  Carmen?" 

Jean  nodded.  "Oh,  Mary,  it  makes  me  sick  clear 
through  sometimes." 

And  then,  for  a  little  while,  they  talked  of  old  times 
and  people  whom  Gregory  did  not  know,  but  he  did 
not  feel  left  out,  only  he  wondered  whether  there  were 
many  women  in  the  world  like  these  two.  Their  inter 
ests  were  so  varied  and  deep  and  they  were  so,  almost 
exhaustingly,  alive. 

But  with  the  coffee  and  cigarettes,  they  came  again 
to  the  plans,  and  Gregory  sketched  his  new  idea.  They 
all  bent  together  over  the  table,  suggested,  disapproved, 
argued  and  contradicted  each  other,  until  Gregory  for 
got  he  was  working  with  women  at  all. 

It  was  half  past  nine  when  Jean  pushed  the  plans 
away  and  stood  up. 

"Not  another  word,  please,"  she  begged,  "or  I'll  be 
gin  on  that  sun-porch  idea  of  mine  and  then  I  never 
will  get  to  the  meeting." 

"Does  every  one's  pet  wrinkle  get  included  in  the 
general  plan?  Because  I  have  a  couple  up  my  own 
sleeve,"  Gregory  demanded,  as  he  gathered  up  the 
sheets,  disappointed  that  the  evening  was  over. 

"Certainly.  Didn't  I  tell  you  the  limit  was  an  ex 
panding  quantity?  You  ought  to  have  seen  Mr.  Al 
len's  face,  Mary,  when  I  told  him  we  didn't  know  how 
much  we  would  have  to  spend." 

"We  may  not  know  the  amount  but  we  know  how 
we're  going  to  get  it.  And  now  we've  seen  you,  I 
think  we  will  notch  it  up  a  few  pegs,  eh,  Jean?" 

Jean  pretended  to  survey  him  critically.  "Yes,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  Oh,  Mary,  they'll  just  eat  it  up, 
won't  they?" 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          179 

"Who?  Me?"  Gregory  felt  a  little  silly  at  this 
banter,  but  enjoyed  it. 

"No,  the  cake,  which  you  will  hand  'round." 

"Never." 

"Don't  be  alarmed.  It  won't  be  to-morrow.  Not 
until  winter.  Right  after  the  first  blizzard  we  give  a 
tea,  very  exclusive,  only  the  rich  invited.  You've  made 
a  nice  technical  plan  full  of  dotted  lines  and  cross- 
sections,  guaranteed  to  confuse  any  living  female. 
Said  plan  hangs  upon  wall,  real  live  architect,  all 
dressed  up,  explains.  Money  pours  in.  ,  By  summer 
tenements  are.  Tenants  move  in.  Q.E.D." 

Gregory  shook  his  head.  "Plans  until  you're  both 
dizzy  with  them,  every  female  in  the  world  sick  with 
the  blind  staggers — but  no  tea." 

"Oh,  by  that  time,  you'll  be  such  a  reformed  char 
acter  you'll  beg  to  come." 

Laughing,  Jean  moved  to  the  door  and  Gregory 
followed.  Dr.  Mary  came  as  far  as  the  front  door  and 
watched  them  down  the  steps.  On  the  sidewalk,  Jean 
held  out  her  hand. 

"Good  night." 

But  Gregory  Allen  fell  into  step  beside  her.  "Don't 
condemn  me,  please,  to  a  roasting  hot  apartment  alone 
or  to  a  Broadway  show.  Mayn't  I  come?  I'd  like  to 
see  this  Rachael." 

"Of  course,  gladly,  if  you  care  to.  But  a  lot  of  it 
will  be  in  Yiddish  and  it  will  be  fearfully  hot  and 
smelly.  I  want  to  talk  with  the  committee  and  after 
the  meeting  is  the  best  time." 

Gregory  did  not  answer  but  walked  along  beside  her. 
She  told  him  more  of  Rachael,  banished  by  her  family 
because  of  her  love  for  the  Gentile  Tom ;  of  the  fright 
ful  conditions  in  the  garment  trade  and  the  faith  of 
her  people  in  Rachael.  Gregory  Allen  heard  only  stray 
phrases  here  and  there.  But  he  felt  Jean's  strength 
and  belief  as  she  swung  along  beside  him,  as  unwearied 


180         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

as  if  the  day  were  just  beginning.    When  a  woman  was 
wonderful  she  was  very  wonderful  indeed. 

The  hall  was  packed.  From  wall  to  wall  a  flat 
surface  of  women's  dusky  heads  swayed  like  a  dark 
sea,  with  here  and  there,  like  rocks  rising  above  the 
surface,  the  hatted  heads  of  men.  From  this  sea  rose 
a  suppressed  rumble,  so  that  the  walls  seemed  to  vibrate 
with  the  throttled  protest.  As  Gregory  followed  Jean 
to  the  seats  instantly  vacated  for  them,  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  dropping  down  far  below  the  daily  surface  of  his 
life.  And  as  he  took  his  seat  it  seemed  to  him  that  a 
trap  literally  closed  above  him,  a  trap  of  foul  air,  so 
thick  it  had  the  quality  of  iron,  and  of  rebellion  so 
unbreakable  that  it  had  the  resistance  of  steel.  A  trap 
that,  once  having  sprung,  would  never  again  rise  above 
the  imprisoned  below.  He  looked  to  Jean.  But  Jean 
did  not  seem  to  be  imprisoned  in  a  foul  subsurface.  Her 
eyes  glowed  with  excited  interest  and  he  realized  that 
this  was  not  a  strange  scene  to  her,  but  part  of  her 
daily  interest. 

"Do  you  think  they  will  lose?"  she  asked,  with  a 
look  that  made  Gregory  feel  as  if  her  strong,  white 
hands  were  drawing  him  gently  with  her  into  this 
seething  mass,  rumbling  below  the  settled  plane  of  his 
life  with  Margaret  and  Puck.  But,  before  he  could 
answer,  the  door  at  the  rear  of  the  platform  opened, 
and  a  man  and  woman  came  out. 

"He's  the  National  Secretary  of  the  Garment  Work 
ers.  And  she's  Rose  Kominsky Ladies'  Waist  Mak 
ers.  I  wonder  where  Ray  is." 

The  National  Secretary  was  short  and  oily,  with 
none  of  the  dignity  of  his  race.  Western  hustle  was 
grafted  upon  Eastern  servility.  In  the  midst  of  blus 
ter,  he  might  suddenly  cringe.  He  was  a  radical,  but 
he  appreciated  the  good  job  of  being  National  Secre 
tary,  and  if  it  had  not  been  a  tenet  of  his  radicalism 
to  despise  insignia,  he  would  have  delighted  in  a  gilt 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          181 

badge.  He  made  a  long  speech,  shouting  and  beating 
in  his  meaning  with  furious  gestures  of  his  fat  hands. 
He  amused  and  disgusted  Gregory. 

The  local  secretary  followed,  riding  in  on  the  wave 
of  the  other's  emotion,  with  stated  facts  and  proved 
data.  As  she  flung  her  last  bunch  of  clinching  statis 
tics  to  the  ceiling,  scattering  it  like  confetti  on  the 
heads  of  the  people,  the  rear  door  opened  again,  and 
a  slip  of  a  girl  in  black,  with  great  black  eyes  in  the 
dead  whiteness  of  her  face,  came  forward.  The  local 
secretary  broke  off  her  last  sentence  in  the  middle 
and  sat  down.  The  girl  came  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
platform  and  waited  quietly  for  the  applause  to  cease. 
At  last  it  died,  and  Rachael  began  to  speak. 

She  spoke  in  Yiddish  but  Gregory  felt  that  the  ter 
rible  silence  of  the  listening  mass  was  a  medium  through 
which  her  words  were  registering  in  his  consciousness. 
Jean  was  right.  She  was  like  a  flame.  Like  an  acety 
lene  torch  burning  its  way  through  all  barriers  of 
race  difference,  social  strata  and  language.  So  fully 
did  he  feel* that  he  knew  what  Rachael  was  saying  that 
he  scarcely  noticed  when  at  the  end  she  swept  into 
English. 

"Wait,"  she  cried,  "wait  in  patience  and  in  courage. 
For  thousands  of  years  our  people  have  waited.  For 
ages  we  workers  have  waited.  And  now  the  time  is 
coming,  each  year  a  little  nearer,  with  every  battle, 
another  inch.  It  is  near,  our  freedom,  near.  Wait. 
Wait.  And  out  of  that  waiting  rises  the  thing  we 
demand.  It  hears  us  calling.  It  is  coming.  It  is 
there  always,  under  the  ashes  of  past  hopes,  never 
dead,  always  burning,  a  light.  Keep  heart.  Keep 
faith.  Do  not  kill  the  little  spark.  After  all  the  years 
we  have  waited,  can  we  not  wait  in  faith  a  little  longer?" 

Before  the  roar  of  applause  ceased,  Jean  and  Greg 
ory  were  out  on  the  sidewalk.  Here  the  heat  was  like 
a  cool  touch  after  the  fetid  heat  of  the  hall. 


182          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Whew." 

Jean  turned  to  him:  "Did  you  get  more  than  you 
bargained  for?" 

"Yes.     In  a  way,  I  did,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"I  warned  you." 

He  might  have  been  a  child  who  had  disobeyed.  Greg 
ory  frowned. 

"I  know  you  did,"  he  said  shortly,  and  then  added, 
with  a  look  that  made  Jean  wonder  what  he  meant,  even 
after  he  was  gone,  "Thank  you." 

Did  he  mean  for  taking  him?  Or  for  the  meeting 
itself? 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

WHAT  are  you  doing,  daddy?" 
Gregory  started,  for  Puck  had  come  so  lightly 
in  her  little  rubber-soled  sandals  that  he  had  not  heard 
her. 

"Making  a  house,  Pucklets." 

"Let  me  see."  Puck  spoke  with  Gregory's  quiet 
determination,  as  if  she  always  expected  to  have  to 
hold  out  against  some  opposition.  It  sat  oddly  with 
her  golden  hair  and  the  delicate  oval  of  her  face  which 
were  Margaret's. 

"Well,  look  at  it.  See,  that's  the  floor  and  these 
are  the  walls."  Gregory  moved  so  that  Puck  could 
come  closer,  but  went  on  with  his  work. 

"What's  that?"  A  ridiculous  duplicate  of  Mar 
garet's  forefinger  pointed  to  a  square  separated  from 
the  main  plan. 

"That's  a  room." 

"A  room?" 

"Surely.  Look;  there  are  the  two  windows  and 
there's  the  door." 

She  made  no  comment  and  after  a  moment  Gregory 
forgot  her,  standing  so  still,  her  chin  just  touching  his 
shoulder. 

"There  isn't  any  top  on  that  house,"  she  announced 
suddenly.  "It's  a  funny  house.  I  don't  like  it." 

At  the  same  moment  Margaret  Allen  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"Why,  Gregory,  aren't  you  going  to  take  her?  It's 
after  eleven  now." 

"Um."     Gregory  was   making  lines  on  a  separate 

183 


184          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

sheet  and  heard  only  the  modulated  run  of  the  words. 
He  rarely  paid  any  conscious  attention  to  Margaret's 
remarks  in  the  making,  because  he  could  always  come 
in  on  time  at  the  end. 

Puck  looked  from  her  father  to  her  mother.  Her 
under  lip  drew  in  as  her  mother's  did  when  she  was 
hurt,  but  it  was  with  the  man's  straight  look  of  fac 
ing  a  difficulty  that  she  turned  away. 

"I  guess  daddy's  too  busy  to  play  with  Puck.  The 
house  hasn't  got  its  roof  on  yet." 

"Gregory!  She's  been  looking  forward  to  it  so  all 
week.  Why,  you're  working!" 

"What  did  you  think  I  was  doing?"  Gregory  looked 
up  curiously;  he  so  often  felt  as  if  she  were  the  child 
and  Puck  the  woman. 

"I  thought  it  was  one  of  those  water  color  things." 

Gregory  sometimes  rested  his  eyes  during  these  week 
ends  through  the  summer,  sketching  the  woods  and  soft 
green  fields.  They  were  not  bad  sketches,  but  Mar 
garet  had  no  respect  for  them.  Subconsciously  she 
was  jealous  of  them.  They  stood  for  something  in 
Gregory  that  had  escaped  her.  With  more  courage 
than  any  one  gave  her  credit  for,  Margaret  Allen  had 
long  ago  buried  her  early  belief  in  her  husband's 
ability.  She  had  been  very  sure  when  she  married 
him,  a  year  after  his  graduation  from  the  Beaux  Arts 
with  honors,  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  rich  and  famous 
architect.  Neither  the  fame  nor  the  riches  had  come  in 
spite  of  her  early  efforts  to  connect  with  people  who 
could  be  of  service.  Nor  later,  when  she  had  recog 
nized  the  uselessness  of  trying  to  force  Gregory  along 
these  paths,  and  turned  her  influence  to  taking  a  per 
sonal  interest,  which  meant  asking  questions  about 
technical  details  which  she  could  not  understand.  The 
little  water  color  sketches  were  like  relics  that  Gregory 
had  kept  from  the  years  before  he  knew  her,  and  when 
he  had  gone  back  to  the  office  on  Monday  mornings, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  185 

and  she  came  on  a  sketch  among  the  scattered  sheets 
of  the  Sunday  paper,  she  felt  almost  as  if  it  were  the 
possession  of  some  woman  who  had  an  illicit  place  in 
her  husband's  life. 

Margaret  bent  over  the  plan. 

"Greggy,  did  you  get  the  Stevens  house?" 

Gregory  watched  her  with  a  faint  smile.  She  was 
very  near,  so  that  the  same  clean,  sweet  odor  drifted 
to  him  as  when  he  slipped  his  arm  about  Puck.  The 
same  little  tendril,  too  slight  to  be  a  curl,  brushed 
Margaret's  neck  just  below  her  ear. 

"But  what  on  earth  is  that?  Surely  the  Stevens 
aren't  going  to  have  a  front  like  that?" 

"Hardly.  What's  the  good  of  making  a  fortune  in 
five  years  if  you  don't  write  it  all  over  the  place?" 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"Tubercular  tenements." 

"What?" 

"It's  a  building  where  the  poor,  who  either  have  or 
are  going  to  have  tuberculosis,  can  get  as  much  air 
and  light  as  the  rich  will  let  them." 

"It  sounds  terribly  socialistic." 

"It's  terribly  individual." 

Margaret  straightened  and  looked  down  with  a 
glance  that  reached  him  from  the  far  citadel  of  pride 
to  which  she  retreated  when  she  was  not  sure  whether 
he  was  making  fun  of  her. 

"Who's  putting  up  the  money?  It's  not  just  build 
ing  itself,  I  suppose." 

Gregory  laughed  outright,  for  he  saw  Dr.  Mary  and 
Jean  and  himself  standing  at  the  table,  that  first  night 
six  weeks  ago. 

"It's  got  to  be  raised  yet." 

"I  don't  see  anything  so  amusing  about  that.  It 
means  that  you're  not  sure  of  your  fee,  as  far  as  I  can 


186          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  sure  about  that.     There  is  no  fee. 
I'm  doing  it  for  nothing." 

"Well,  I  must  say "     Margaret  broke  off.     It 

was  the  one  fixed  principle  of  her  relations  with 
Gregory  that  they  never  had  an  open  difference  of 
opinion,  especially  before  Puck.  Above  all  things 
Margaret  Allen  was  well  bred  and  she  could  no  more 
have  cleared  the  atmosphere  in  a  burst  of  anger  than 
she  could  have  struck  some  one.  She  never  dynamited 
an  obstacle  with  outspoken  objection.  She  returned 
again  and  again  and  scratched  at  it. 

"Is  the  contractor  giving  his  time,  and  the  laborers  ?" 

Gregory  was  still  looking  off  to  the  line  of  trees  and 
smiling. 

"It  isn't  started  yet.     But  they  may." 

Margaret  moved  to  the  piazza  rail  and  sat  down. 
She  was  slight  and  so  fair  that  she  seemed  part  of  the 
sunlight  sifting  through  the  thick  green  of  the  wistaria. 

"Who's  backing  it?  Somebody  must  be  behind  it 
all." 

"Oh  yes.  There's  some  one  very  much  behind  it ;  in 
''act,  two  people." 

It  was  impossible  for  Gregory  to  think  of  the  plan 
without  Dr.  Mary — Dr.  Mary  and  Jean  and  himself  in 
Gramercy  Park. 

"There's  Dr.  Mary  MacLean  and  Jean  Herrick." 

"What !  Jean  Herrick !  The  Charity  Organization 
woman  ?" 

"She  works  with  the  Charities.     It's  her  scheme." 

"Well !" 

Words  failed  Margaret. 

"Well  what?" 

"How  long  have  you  been  working  on  them?" 

"About  six  weeks.  Yes,  just  about  six  weeks,"  he 
repeated,  and  went  on  with  a  detail  of  the  entrance 
hall. 

"Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  you  do  things  to  be 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          187 

deliberately  annoying.  Why  didn't  you  say  anything 
about  it?  You  know  I'm  interested  in  public  things 
like  that,  and  besides  The  Fortnightly  is  going  to  take 
up  housing  and  public  dependents  this  winter.  Mabel 
Dawson  is  down  to  get  the  first  speaker,  and  we've 
talked  over  Jean  Herrick  a  good  deal." 

"You  have  ?"  Gregory  suddenly  stopped  working  on 
the  detail. 

"She's  becoming  terribly  popular,  in  the  front  line 
of  everything,  the  last  word  in  feminism  and  all  that, 
you  know.  A  lot  of  the  most  progressive  clubs  have 
her  down  for  winter  talks.  But  The  Fortnightly  has 
to  be  careful.  We  have  a  good  many  of  the  old  families 
and  we  have  to  go  slowly.  Mrs.  Herrick  is  extremely 
radical  and  speaks  at  labor  meetings  and  strikes  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing,  you  know.  Besides,  she's 
divorced." 

Gregory's  pencil  jabbed  a  hole  in  the  blue-print. 
"Is  she?" 

"Yes,  one  of  the  horrid  kind."  Margaret's  tone 
separated  divorces,  tolerated  some  and  excluded  others. 
"Mabel  wrote  to  a  cousin  in  California  to  find  out  be 
fore  we  asked  her.  Goodness  knows  we're  not  straight- 
laced,  but  there  are  things  one  can't  stand  for  officially. 
This  Herrick  was  an  artist,  Mabel  says,  did  futurist 
things  before  any  one  else  heard  of  them  and  drank 
like  a  fish.  He  abused  her  shamefully,  but  she  stood  it 
as  long  as  she  could." 

Gregory  got  up  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"But  when  he  began  to  bring  women  right  into  the 
house,  she  left  him.  So  of  course  it  wasn't  her  fault. 
Mabel  says  she's  a  wonderful  speaker,  just  a  little 
masculine  in  her  manner,  but  then  such  a  life  wouldn't 
make  her  specially  clinging  or  gentle.  We've  about 
decided  to  have  her." 

Gregory  closed  the  drawing  board  and  Puck  came 
hopefully  to  his  side. 


188          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"You  mustn't  tease  daddy,  dear;  he's  busy." 

Margaret  moved  toward  the  door  and  beckoned 
Puck.  "Can  you  take  her  for  just  a  little  walk  this 
afternoon,  before  .the  Dawsons  come?  They're  going 
to  bring  Squdgy,  you  know."  By  raised  eyebrows 
Margaret  indicated  the  need  of  Puck's  being  perfectly 
happy  before  the  arrival  of  Squdgy,  whom  she  disliked 
and  was  apt  to  ignore  completely. 

Puck  slipped  her  hand  into  her  father's.  The  mo 
tion  drew  his  notice. 

"It's  all  right,  Puckie,  go  and  dress  Lady  Jane  and 
I'll  take  you  now." 

"Do  you  really  want  us  to  take  Lady  Jane,  daddy? 
I  ought  to  take  Matilda;  Lady  Jane  went  last  week." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  have  Lady  Jane,  because  she 
knows  the  first  half  of  the  story  already  and  I'd  have 
to  go  all  over  it  from  the  beginning  for  Matilda." 

Puck  sighed  her  relief  and  scampered  off. 

"Greg,  don't  tell  her  any  of  those  terribly  exciting 
things.  You  never  seem  to  understand  how  highly- 
strung  she  is.  All  last  week  she  kept  on  giving  the 
most  terrible  versions  of  that  bear  story  to  Lady  Jane. 
You  don't  realize  what  an  imagination  she's  got." 

"Thank  God,"  Gregory  snapped,  and  wished  that 
Margaret  would  sometimes  give  him  an  excuse  to  be  as 
rude  as  he  felt. 

Out  in  the  woods,  with  Puck  trotting  by  his  side, 
Gregory  tried  to  push  the  picture  Margaret  had 
brought  before  him  into  the  cool  shade  of  the  trees. 
But,  in  the  shortest  interludes  of  Puck's  silence,  it  was 
there  before  him  again,  hot  and  glaring  and  tawdry: 
Jean  Herrick,  married  to  a  libertine.  A  man  who,  in 
sottish  sensuality,  turned  from  one  woman  to  another. 
And  she  had  "stood  it," — that  ghastly  compromise  of 
weak  women — until  it  had  passed  beyond  bounds. 

It  was  impossible.  And  yet  what  did  he  know  of 
women  ? 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          189 

There  had  been  that  one  grisette  in  Paris,  who  had 
embarrassed  him  so  by  calling  his  smile  "un  petit 
oiseau."  A  single  month's  mildest  flirtation  with  a 
pretty  stenographer,  who  was  more  like  a  mischievous 
boy  than  a  girl.  And  Margaret.  He  had  married 
Margaret  because  she  was  so  different  from  the  grisette 
and,  yet,  when  he  had  put  his  arms  round  Margaret 
for  the  first  time,  and  she  turned  her  sweet,  unresponsive 
lips  to  his,  he  had  wanted  to  crush  her,  hurt  her  in 
some  way,  just  as  he  had  once  wanted  to  choke  the 
grisette.  As  Margaret  wasn't  a  grisette,  Gregory  had 
believed  the  big  love  of  his  life  had  come.  Afterwards 
the  need  of  making  his  place  in  the  world  had  claimed 
him.  And,  now,  occasional  moods  he  dispelled  with 
extra  work  and  Puck. 

Margaret  had  always  told  him  he  was  interested 
in  nothing  that  he  could  not  draw,  and  did  not  know 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world.  Perhaps  women  were 
part  of  the  "things  going  on."  Perhaps  he  was  old- 
fashioned.  Perhaps  it  was  a  puritanical  streak,  this 
intense  repulsion  to  thinking  of  Jean  married  to  a 
drunken  libertine.  It  would  not  have  been  a  happy 
memory,  but  Gregory  could  imagine  a  dozen  men  he 
knew,  himself  even,  living  down  such  a  memory,  doing 
useful  work  in  spite  of  an  unfaithful,  drunken  wife 
put  out  of  their  lives.  How  did  he  know  but  that 

"Dad-dy,  did  the  bears  get  the  children?" 

Gregory  came  back  to  a  realization  that  Puck  had 
been  asking  this  for  some  time. 

"No,  the  bears  did  not  get  them,  Puck;  not  in  the 
end,  but  they  had  a  hard  time  of  it." 

Puck's  eyes  blackened  with  suppressed  excitement. 
It  had  a  startling  effect,  had  excitement  on  Puck.  It 
was  like  an  acid  that  ate  out  all  her  resemblance  to 
Margaret,  obliterated  the  softness  of  outline,  seemed 
to  devour  even  the  delicate  tints  of  her  coloring-. 


190          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Excitement  brought  Puck  up  the  years  to  meet  him, 
sent  him  racing  backward  to  her. 

"Oh,  I  was  so  frightened  they'd  get  all  eaten  up  and 
left  out  there  without  their  mothers  and  daddies  know 
ing  where  they  was." 

Her  hand  clutched  Gregory's,  and  her  other  arm 
protected  the  beloved  Lady  Jane. 

"Lady  Jane's  been  terrible  frightened,  too.  I  couldn't 
get  her  to  sleep  last  night,  not  for  a  long,  long  time." 

"Dear  me,  that's  too  bad.  I  guess  we'll  have  to  settle 
the  matter  right  now." 

Gregory  sat  on  the  ground  under  a  huge  chestnut 
and  filled  his  pipe.  Puck  curled  close,  cautioning  Lady 
Jane  to  be  "very,  most  perticular  still,"  and  Gregory 
began  a  rambling  sequel  to  the  tale  of  the  Three  Bears. 
Behind  the  Three  Bears — Jean  stood  with  Herrick. 

They  were  late  for  luncheon,  but  Margaret  made  no 
comment.  Puck  did  not  look  over-excited  and  Gregory 
was  in  one  of  his  silent  moods.  Margaret  wanted  to 
ask  him  details  about  the  Tubercular  Tenements,  and 
Gregory  knew,  by  her  mole-like  bur  rowings  about  the 
subject,  that  she  was  pleased  with  his  connection.  In 
a  way  he  could  not  unravel,  it  was  connected  with  a 
new  wing  some  millionaire  friend  of  Mabel  Dawson^s 
had  just  donated  to  St.  Luke's  hospital  in  memory  of 
a  dead  baby. 

As  soon  as  lunch  was  over,  Margaret  and  Puck  went 
to  take  a  nap  before  the  coming  of  the  Dawsons,  and 
Gregory  took  the  detail  his  walk  with  Puck  had  inter 
rupted,  out  to  the  hammock  under  the  maple.  But 
the  lines  grouped  themselves  to  pictures  of  the  last 
six  weeks  and  he  did  nothing.  Six  weeks!  For  the 
first  time,  Gregory  blocked  the  period  out  of  the  past 
and  the  incredible  richness  of  it  startled  him. 

Six  weeks,  forty-two  days  since  he  had  come  two 
hours  late  to  his  appointment  with  Mrs.  Herrick  of 
the  C.O.S.  and  wondered  whether  she  did  not  some- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          191 

times  pose.  Six  weeks  since  he  had  gone  with  her  to 
the  meeting  and  heard  the  rumbling  of  the  world  below 
the  safety  of  his  own  conventional  social  strata.  Only 
six  weeks  since  he  had  again  begun  to  feel  the  stirring 
of  the  old  dreams  that  he  had  believed  dead.  So  that 
now,  after  he  left  Jean  in  the  evenings,  it  was  hard  some 
times  to  remember  that  the  plans  they  discussed  were 
not  things  he  was  actually  doing,  instead  of  the  things 
he  had  forgotten  he  had  ever  hoped  to  do. 

At  five  the  Dawsons  came.  Mabel  and  Margaret 
retired  to  the  end  of  the  piazza,  Squdgy  was  unloaded 
upon  Puck,  who  obediently  took  him  off  to  the  play 
house,  and  Bill  Dawson,  fat,  moist,  as  bored  by  Gregory 
as  Gregory  was  by  him,  did  his  best  to  start  a  con 
versation.  Gregory  wished  he  could  follow  Puck's 
example  with  Squdgy  and  give  Bill  a  picture  book.  He 
listened,  however,  as  well  as  he  could,  to  the  perspiring 
stockbroker's  denunciation  of  Socialism  and  all  "this 
fashionable  parlor  radicalism,"  politely  assisted  him  to 
a  plank  of  personal  reminiscence  and  prophecy,  and, 
with  a  breath  of  relief,  saw  him  presently  fall  off  the 
plank  into  the  stock  exchange,  where  he  let  him  wallow 
happily  in  his  native  medium. 

He  was  still  in  it,  when  the  maid  wheeled  out  the 
tea-wagon  and  Margaret  and  Mabel  came  to  join  them. 
Gregory  knew  by  the  look  in  Mabel's  eyes  that  this 
was  the  first  time  Margaret  had  ever  come  in  under 
the  wire  first,  and,  by  the  new  respect  with  which  she 
treated  him,  that  the  tenements  linked  him  favorably 
with  the  great  civic  achievements  of  The  Fortnightly, 
Puck  brought  Squdgy,  delivered  him  to  his  mother  as 
if  he  were  a  sacrifice  and  climbed  into  Gregory's  lap. 
Nor  could  any  frowns  or  suggestions  that  "big  girls 
sit  in  chairs"  dislodge  her. 

At  last  tea  was  over  and  the  Dawsons  went,  Bill  lead 
ing  with  the  now  sleeping  Squdgy  in  his  arms,  Mabd 
and  Margaret  sauntering  behind.  They  passed  down 


192          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

the  lane  and  disappeared.  The  gold  in  the  sky  dis 
solved  to  palest  yellow  and  faint  green.  Crickets 
chirped.  The  earth,  freshened  by  the  coming  cool 
ness,  threw  back  to  the  world,  in  spicy  sweetness,  the 
garnered  heat  of  the  day.  Puck  slept  in  his  arms. 

In  the  kitchen  the  maid  finished  the  dishes  and  went 
across  the  creeping  dusk  to  the  next  house.  Snatches 
of  laughter  came  to  him  and  he  saw  the  two  girls  come 
out  and  sit  on  the  back  steps.  In  a  few  moments  the 
chauffeur  from  the  big  house  up  the  road  joined  them, 
and  they  all  went  off  together. 

Gregory  carried  Puck  in  and  laid  her  on  her  bed. 
Then  he  went  into  the  library  and  switched  on  the  light. 
He  spread  the  blueprint  and  began  again  on  the  de 
layed  detail.  It  was  the  last  touch  to  the  plans,  and 
he  had  promised  to  bring  it  with  him  to-morrow  night. 
But  the  weight  of  the  day  just  passed  pressed  down 
upon  him,  and  ideas  came  slowly.  Margaret  had  been 
long  in  bed,  when  he  finally  drew  the  last  line  and 
turned  out  the  light. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

WHAT  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you  to-night? 
You  look  as  if  you  had  lost  your  last  friend 
and  been  evicted  for  non-payment  of  rent."  Jean  was 
leaning  back  in  her  usual  chair  to  the  right  of  the 
window,  drawn  just  far  enough  to  keep  in  view  the 
tops  of  the  trees,  beyond  sight  of  the  dry,  trodden 
grass.  Her  chin  tilted,  she  looked  at  him  sidewise, 
laughing. 

All  day,  at  every  interval  not  crowded  with  work, 
Gregory  had  been  pushing  the  thought  of  Herrick 
away.  The  need  to  do  this  had  filled  him  with  a  vague 
anger  at  Jean,  and  he  had  not  intended  coming  to 
night.  But  the  evening  had  stretched  so  empty  before 
him  that  he  had  come,  and  now  he  was  angry  that  he 
had. 

"Cheer  up,  it  can't  be  as  bad  as  all  that,"1  Jean 
bantered. 

The  words  jarred  and  the  tone  annoyed  him.  "I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  realize  that  I  was  so  terribly 
glum." 

He  spoke  with  a  stilted  conventionality  that  made 
Jean  glance  at  him  quickly.  The  smile  went  out  of 
her  eyes.  She  wished  she  had  not  spoken. 

A  silence  fell  between  them,  unusual  in  its  artificial 
ity.  Jean  tried  to  think  of  something  impersonal  to 
say,  but  there  had  never  been  anything  effortful  in 
these  hours  with  Gregory  and  the  present  need  made 
her  uncomfortable.  After  all,  a  thousand  incidents  of 
which  she  knew  nothing  might  have  happened  to  de 
press  him.  He  had  spent  the  week-end  with  his  family. 

193 


19*          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

The  hinterland  of  Gregory's  life  came  close,  and  Jean 
felt  that  she  had  intruded. 

The  silence  deepened.  Jean  wished  that  Mary 
would  come.  She  thought  of  getting  a  book,  of  finish 
ing  a  report  that  she  had  begun,  of  going  into  the 
kitchen.  But  she  never  picked  up  a  book  when  she 
and  Gregory  were  together,  nor  finished  office  details, 
nor  looked  after  Mamie  in  the  kitchen.  And  this  feel 
ing  that  she  must  move,  get  away  from  Gregory,  break 
the  silence,  filled  her  with  an  almost  physical  uneasi 
ness.  This  sudden  need  to  move  beyond  the  reach  of 
some  tangible  element  in  the  silence,  frightened  her. 
So  that  Gregory,  turning  unexpectedly,  surprised  a 
strange,  unusual  look  on  Jean's  face,  that  made  the 
conventional  remark  he  had  finally  succeeded  in  captur 
ing  unnecessary.  Jean,  too,  was  in  a  new  mood  to 
night. 

The  silence  tingled  with  something  that  Gregory  felt 
must  always  have  been  in  it.  Something  was  pushing 
into  the  foreground,  from  its  seclusion  in  the  carefree 
weeks  behind.  The  need  to  know  definitely  about  Her- 
rick  was  there  before  him  at  last.  He  could  admit 
Herrick  or  exclude  him.  For  a  moment  he  had  the 
choice,  and  then  Jean  said: 

"I  am  afraid  Rachael  is  going  to  be  ill.  She  looked 
like  a  ghost  to-day." 

"What?"  Gregory  leaned  forward,  peering  through 
the  words  to  Jean's  purpose  in  uttering  them. 

"They  are  getting  dissatisfied.  Things  are  not  mov 
ing  fast  enough.  And  Rachael  is  very  tired." 

Jean  seized  Rachael  and  dragged  her  forward,  held 
her  there  between  herself  and  Gregory. 

Gregory  slouched  back  in  his  chair. 

"That's  too  bad.     I  suppose  it's  the  heat." 

"No,  it's  more  than  that.  Tom  is  pestering  her.  If 
she  gives  up,  the  whole  thing  will  go  under." 

There  was  a  silence. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          195 

"Do  you  think  it  very  much  matters  after  all?  It's 
a  pretty  big  price  you  want  her  to  pay." 

The  words  brought  a  picture  of  Herrick  on  the 
night  he  had  kissed  her  and  she  had  locked  the  door  of 
their  room.  Jean  moved  as  if  to  get  up,  but  her  own 
motion  drove  back  the  memory,  cleared  her  brain  and 
forced  Herrick's  hot  eyes  into  the  past. 

"When  personal  need  reaches  the  depths  it  has  in 
Rachael,"  Gregory  said  slowly,  "it  becomes  cosmic." 

"That  sounds  like  fatalism." 

Gregory  looked  at  her  quietly.  What  had  been  her 
own  need,  when  she  had  married  Herrick?  What  had 
been  his,  when  he  had  married  Margaret? 

"It's  all  so  unreal  when  it's  over,  but " 

And  then  Mary  was  in  the  doorway  laughing. 

"Well,  of  all  the  gloomy-looking  objects!" 

The  words  exploded  in  the  narrowing  space  between 
them.  Smiling,  Jean  dragged  herself  up  from  her 
chair.  "We're  so  hungry  we're  perishing." 

Why  did  she  say  that? 

But  Gregory  too  was  glad  Mary  had  come. 

"We  weren't  gloomy.  We  were  thinking — a  process 
quite  unknown  to  you,  Doctor." 

"Absolutely.  Mine's  action."  Mary  threw  her 
things  on  the  couch  but  did  not  sit  down.  Her  eyes 
twinkled.  Her  whole  plump  person  emanated  mystery. 

"Mary,  what  have  you  got  up  your  sleeve?  You're 
just  about  ready  to  burst  with  it." 

"Well,  it's  not  so  bad,  but  it  needs  the  accompani 
ment  of  food.  Mamie!" 

"Dinner's    ready." 

"Come  on.  I'll  tell  you  when  we  reach  the  demi- 
tasses." 

Nor  could  she  be  persuaded  or  trapped  into  a  state 
ment  until  the  table  was  cleared  for  coffee  and  ciga 
rettes.  Then  she  said: 

"Dr.  Fenninger  is  in  town." 


196         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Mary!     Not  really!" 

"Yes,  he  is.     I  met  him  to-night  in  the  Subway." 

"Who  is  Fenninger?    The  Great  Poohbah?" 

"Just  about,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned.  He  pre 
scribes  bread  pills  for  every  exhausted  society  woman 
in  town  and  diagnoses  the  indigestions  of  millionaires 
at  a  thousand  per.  Jean,  do  you  think  mummy  would 
get  up  a  dinner  for  him?  He's  going  to  be  in  town  a 
week.  We  won't  tell  her  how  important  he  is,  just  that 
he  is  alone  in  town,  family  away,  'simple  little  home 
dinner,  you  know,'  'just  ourselves  in  summer,'  'im 
promptu,'  'home  atmosphere,'  and  so  forth." 

"I  think  she  would.     I'll  ask  her." 

"But  why  does  this  man  get  asked  to  dinner  because 
he  prescribes  bread  pills  for  society  women?" 

"Have  you  forgotten  that  we  have  to  raise  funds  for 
the  T.B.'s?  Now,  does  light  glimmer?" 

"Not  a  glimmer." 

"It's  this  way,"  Jean  explained.  "We  invite  him 
to  dinner,  very  expensive  and  elaborate  and  described 
as  a  simple  little  home  affair.  We  make  him  very  com 
fortable  and  mention  the  tenements.  We  go  on  eating 
and  mentioning  gradually.  By  the  time  we  get  to  the 
black  coffee  he  believes  he  thought  up  the  whole  thing; 
gives  us  a  check — but  that  doesn't  matter  so  much — is 
pledged  by  his  own  masculine  conceit  to  prescribe  an 
interest  in  raising  funds  to  every  bored  patient  he  has. 
By  the  time  The  Tea  comes  off,  there  you  are." 

"Well !  Of  all  the  round-about,  feminine  methods  of 
procedure,  that  takes  the  cake.  Just  explain  to  Mrs. 
Norris  that  there  will  be  two  extra  guests.  I  wouldn't 
miss  it  for  anything." 

"Yes  you  will.  Because  you're  not  asked.  Noth 
ing  like  that.  Home  atmosphere  to  a  man  means  him 
self.  We'll  tell  you  about  it,  but  that's  as  near  as 
he'll  get,  isn't  it,  Jean?" 

Jean  laughed.     "I'm  afraid  it  is.     We  may  be  able 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          197 

to  work  Fenninger  in  on  mummy,  but  she's  heard  about 
you  and  thinks  you're  a  frightfully  important  person. 
It  would  scare  her  stiff  to  have  you  to  dinner." 

"Give  her  another  name,  anything.  I've  got  to  be 
in  at  the  death." 

"Besides,"  Mary  interposed,  "we'll  have  it  on  Sun 
day — best  set  for  lonely  man  in  city  without  his  family, 
dismal  Sunday,  etc." 

"Well?"     Gregory's  eyes  met  Jean's  for  a  second. 

"You  couldn't  come  on  Sunday.  You — won't  be 
here." 

There  was  an  imperceptible  pause,  and  then  Gregory 
said  quietly: 

"No,  in  that  case,  I  can't." 

In  a  few  moments  they  left  the  table  and  went  back 
to  the  living  room.  But  Gregory  did  not  sit  down 
again.  He  moved  restlessly  about  the  room,  reading 
bits  out  of  magazines  which  he  picked  up  at  random 
under  pretense  of  trying  to  find  an  article  he  had  seen 
fche  week  before. 

A  little  after  nine  he  said  he  was  tired,  and  had 
work  to  do  at  the  office.  When  he  had  gone  Mary 
turned  to  Jean. 

"Well,  of  all  the  extraordinary  manifestations! 
What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  the  man?" 

"How  should  I  know?     Nothing,  probably." 

"Rubbish.  He  got  all  fussed  up  and  peevish  about 
something.  Do  you  suppose  he  was  really  hurt  that 
we  wouldn't  let  him  in  on  the  dinner?" 

"No,  of  course  not.  Besides,  how  could  he  come? 
He  always  goes  home  over  the  week-end." 

"I  know.  But  there  was  something.  I  never  saw 
him  act  like  that  before." 

"Oh,  men  are  likely  to  do  anything.  They're — 
they're  so  inconsequent." 

Jean  wondered  what  she  meant,  as  she  lit  a  cigarette 
and  took  the  chair  facing  out  to  the  tree  tops. 


198          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

But  later  in  the  evening,  when  they  were  not  talk> 
ing  of  Gregory  at  all,  Mary  said  suddenly. 

"Jean,  do  you  suppose  we'd  better  make  it  some 
other  day?  Sunday  is  the  best,  but  I  wouldn't  like 
Gregory  to  be  really  hurt." 

"Nonsense,  Mary.  Of  course  Sunday  is  the  best 
day.  No.  Let's  leave  it  that  way." 

But  she  too  left  earlier  than  usual. 

As  Gregory  Allen  walked  slowly  uptown  in  the  hot 
night,  he  was  aware  that  something  decisive  had  hap 
pened.  Some  thread,  carried  over  from  the  moments 
alone  with  Jean  before  dinner  had  snapped,  when  Jean 
said: 

"You  couldn't  come  on  Sunday." 

All  through  these  summer  weeks,  he  had  felt  alone 
with  Jean.  But  the  conditions  of  his  life,  his  home, 
his  wife,  his  child,  his  obligations,  which  had  entered  not 
at  all  into  his  consciousness,  must  have  been  present  to 
her  all  the  time.  She  did  not  think  of  him  as  a  separate 
human  unit,  in  the  way  he  thought  of  her.  He  was 
married.  He  had  obligations.  He  conformed  to  the 
conventional  social  usage.  Married  men  went  home 
over  the  week-ends.  Therefore  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  be  present  at  the  dinner.  Jean  had  not  for  a 
moment  seriously  considered  the  possibility  of  his  doing 
it.  And  he  would  have,  gladly.  He  would  have  broken 
the  habit  of  years.  He  would  have  stayed  the  two 
stifling  days  in  town.  He  would  have  done  this  thing 
if  Jean  had  not  said : 

"You  won't  be  here." 

Why  would  he  have  done  it?  Why  did  he  want  so 
much  to  go? 

Again  and  again  Gregory  cut  through  the  tangle  of 
false  explanations  and  reached  this  point.  But  beyond 
it  he  would  not  go. 

"Oh,  the  devil!"     Gregory  turned  at  Forty-Second, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  199 

passed   the  Subway   station  and  continued   on   to  his 
office. 

The  elevator  had  stopped  running  and  he  walked 
the  three  flights.  The  last  mail  lay  on  his  desk  as  the 
office  boy  had  stacked  it.  On  the  top,  anchored  by  a 
paper  weight  so  that  he  would  be  sure  to  see  it  in 
stantly,  was  a  telegram.  Gregory  tore  it  open.  It  was 
from  Amos  Palmer,  asking  him  to  come  at  once.  The 
Palmers  were  hastening  their  departure  for  Europe 
and  wanted  some  changes  made  in  the  plans. 

For  weeks  the  Palmer  place  had  been  a  joke  with 
him  and  Jean  and  Dr.  Mary.  They  had  taken  turns 
in  designing  terrible  ornamentations  which  would  ad 
vertize  for  miles  Palmer's  success  in  the  leather  trade. 
Dr.  Mary  had  insisted  on  a  golden  shoe  for  a  weather 
cock  on  the  ten  thousand  dollar  barn,  and  Jean  had 
suggested  carving  cattle  all  over  a  turret.  Gregory 
smiled  as  he  recalled  Jean's  painful  efforts  with  the 
cow. 

It  was  the  biggest  job  he  had  had  for  years.  But 
— the  remaining  month  of  summer  shut  up  with  Amos 
and  his  wife  and  the  ten-thousand-dollar  barn. 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I " 

Gregory  stopped,  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  lit  his 
pipe.  He  smoked  one  pipe  and  lit  another.  Again 
and  again  he  filled  his  pipe,  lit,  and  smoked  slowly. 

It  was  very  late  when  he  took  down  the  'phone  and 
sent  an  affirmative  telegram  to  Amos  Palmer. 

Then  he  looked  up  trains.  There  was  one  at  eight 
in  the  morning.  Gregory  wrote  a  note  of  explanation 
to  Margaret  and  laid  it  on  the  mail  to  be  sent  out  first 
in  the  morning.  Then  he  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  started 
a  note  to  Jean,  tore  it  and  began  one  to  Dr.  Mary. 
When  he  read  it  over  it  sounded  as  if  he  were  apologiz 
ing  for  going  at  all.  He  tore  this  and  tried  again. 
Now  he  seemed  to  be  asking  permission.  This  followed 
the  others  to  the  waste-basket  and  Gregory  locked  his 


200          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

desk.  There  was  really  no  need  to  write  at  all.  They 
would  understand  that  he  had  been  called  away,  and 
anyhow  the  plans  were  finished.  When  he  returned, 
things  would  be  different.  Summer  would  be  over. 
Gregory  whistled  as  he  packed  the  Palmer  plans,  and 
all  the  way  down  the  three  flights  to  the  street. 

It  was  after  one,  but  the  crowds  still  moved  in  four 
streams,  two  up,  two  down.  Gregory  wondered  why 
so  many  people  walked  in  the  night,  as  if  the  city,  like 
a  nervous  woman,  must  never  be  left  alone. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

THE  Fenninger  dinner  was  a  success,  and  Jean 
waited  all  the  next  morning  for  Gregory  to 
'phone.  She  so  thoroughly  expected  him  to,  and 
waited  so  impatiently,  enjoying  in  anticipation  certain 
shadings  which  she  knew  would  delight  him,  that,  late 
in  the  afternoon,  when  the  alternative  of  calling  him 
occurred  to  her,  Jean  could  not  do  it.  She  did  not 
like  to  feel  this  way,  and  told  herself  that  her  own 
interest  had  colored  her  perspective.  There  was  no 
need  for  Gregory  to  rush  to  the  'phone  as  soon  as  he 
came  back  from  his  week-end  with  his  family,  when 
she  would  surely  see  him  in  the  evening.  Nevertheless, 
that  night  at  dinner,  when  Mary  asked  her  if  she  had 
heard  from  Gregory,  Jean  felt  a  relief  out  of  all  pro 
portion  to  the  explanation  she  had  forced  on  her  own 
logic. 

"Funny,  he  didn't  ring  up." 

Jean  cracked  a  walnut  with  great  deliberation.  "I 
suppose  he's  extra  busy." 

"Not  so  busy  as  all  that.  Jean,  you  can  say  what 
you  like,  but  he  was  angry.  I  imagine,  in  some  moods, 
he  would  be  awfully  touchy,  and  evidently  he  was  in 
one  that  night.  But  he'll  never  be  able  to  resist  long." 

Jean  picked  the  meat  carefully  from  the  shell  and 
ate  it  slowly. 

"Let's  string  him  a  bit  first,"  Mary  continued,  "pre 
tend  we  couldn't  work  Fenninger  and  then  spring  it  on 
him.  He'll  smile,  then  gurgle  and  finally  explode  like 
a  small  boy." 

201 


202         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jean  reached  for  another  nut.  "He  is  like  a  small 
boy,  very  often." 

There  was  a  silence,  while  Mary  chose  a  bunch  of 
raisins  from  the  nut  dish  and  ate  them  thoughtfully. 

"It's  a  damn  shame,"  she  said  suddenly,  apropos 
of  nothing. 

Jean  rose  and  pushed  back  her  chair. 

"Oh,  lots  of  things  are  a  shame,"  she  returned  flip 
pantly,  and  they  went  into  the  living  room. 

But  when  a  week  had  passed  without  hearing  any 
thing  from  Gregory,  Mary  rang  up  his  office.  He  was 
out  of  town.  No,  they  did  not  know  when  he  would 
be  back,  exactly,  certainly  not  for  another  three  weeks. 
He  was  at  the  Palmer  place. 

"Well  I'll  be  darned  !"  Dr.  Mary  apostrophized  the 
tip  of  her  cigarette,  and  in  acquiescence,  the  little  ash- 
head  fell  off.  "That's  not  like  him  one  single  bit.  Not 
even  if  he  was  called  away  in  a  hurry.  I  wonder 


She  did  not  see  Jean  for  two  days,  but  when  she 
iid,  asked  abruptly: 

"Have  you  heard  from  Gregory  yet?" 

"No.     Have  you?" 

"I  rang  up  the  office.  He's  gone  to  the  Palmer 
place,  will  be  gone  for  a  month." 

Under  pretext  of  laying  aside  her  things,  Jean 
turned  away. 

"I  suppose  they  rushed  things  at  the  end,  one  of 
the  whims  of  the  idle  rich." 

"That's  no  reason  for  his  acting  like  a  boor." 

"Of  course  it  isn't.     But  then  he  has." 

"I  don't  believe  it.    There  was  something  -  " 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  men  were  queer?"  Jean  spoke 
without  turning.  "They  —  they  don't  have  reasons,  not 
good  ones,  for  everything  they  do.  They  -  " 

"Fiddlesticks!  Maybe  they  don't  know  their  own 
reasons,  but  they  have  'em.  Nobody,  not  even  a  man, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          203 

switches  round  like  that  without  some  cause.  Why, 
he's  been  coming  here  three  and  four  times  a  week,  and 
he's  enjoyed  it,  too.  I  feel  as  if  he  belonged  somehow, 
don't  you?" 

Jean  was  looking  into  the  Park,  to  the  trees,  a 
sickly  green  with  their  coating  of  summer  dust  under 
the  arc  lights.  But  she  could  see  Gregory  lounging 
in  the  empty  chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  window, 
could  see  him  very  distinctly,  his  nervous  hands  on 
the  dark  tapestry  of  the  arms,  his  head  tilted  back. 

"Yes.    He  does  seem  to  go  with  the  place." 

"Are  you  sure  you  didn't  do  anything?  He  looked 
awfully  glum  that  night  when  I  came  in." 

"I  don't  know.  Maybe  I  did,  but  I  can't  think  of 
anything."  Jean  continued  to  stare  at  the  dusty  trees. 
"Anyhow,  if  he's  the  reasonable  being  you  insist  he  is, 
he'll  get  over  being  huffy,  and  then  we'll  know." 

Mary  laughed.  "Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and 
sucklings.  But  I'll  confess  that  it  annoys  me.  Doesn't 
it  you?" 

Jean  faced  into  the  room.  "No.  But  then  I  have 
real  annoyances  to  contend  with." 

"You've  been  at  it  again  with  Pedloe !" 

"I  certainly  have.  He's  having  a  fit  because  I'm 
on  the  committee  for  arranging  strike  relief.  *Of 
course,  personally,  Mrs.  Herrick,  my  sympathies  are 
all  for  the  strikers,  but  you  understand  that  official 
ly '  Round  and  round  he  goes  like  a  frightened 

squirrel.  Honestly,  it's  pitiful.  He  can't  come  out 
openly  on  either  side.  He's  just  as  shackled  by  that 
$6000  a  year  salary  as  a  convict  with  a  ball  and  chain. 
What  do  you  think  he  told  me?" 

Jean  forced  aside  the  figure  of  Gregory  and  put  Dr. 
Pedloe  in  his  place.  Holding  the  head  of  the  Charity 
Organization  firmly  before  her  eyes,  she  began  walk 
ing  up  and  down. 

"Almost  anything,  from  the  way  you  look." 


204          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"He  said  that  this  strike,  it's  got  fifty  thousand 
women  now  and  it  may  become  sympathetic  before  it's 
over  and  take  in  hundreds,  was  essentially  a  struggle 
of  Jewish  workers.  That  the  Hebrew  Relief  should 
supplement  strike  benefits.  And  that  in  the  cases  of 
others,  Christians,  well,  he  did  not  know  just  what  they 
could  do,  but  he  was  very  sure  that  the  Organization 
could  do  nothing.  Why?  Because  the  roots  of  the 
thing  ramify  so  that  some  of  our  very  heaviest  sub 
scribers  are  in  the  tangle,  and  he  doesn't  dare  go 
against  them." 

"What's  he  want  you  to  do?  Resign  from  the  com 
mittee?" 

"Yes.  He  hinted  around  for  an  hour,  hoping  I'd 
help  him  out,  I  suppose,  but  I  just  sat  and  let  him 
fidget.  So  in  the  end  he  came  out  flat  and  told  me  he 
could  not  stand  for  having  me  officially  mixed  up  in 
it  and  I  told  him  that  I  was  not  officially  mixed  up,  that 
it  was  purely  a  question  of  personal  belief, — you  ought 
to  have  seen  him  at  that, — and  friendship  for  Rachael 
Cohen.  He  got  off  the  strike  then,  quick,  and  began 
to  hint  that  in  other  ways  I  did  not  measure  up  to 
Organized  ethics.  I  always  knew  he  was  furious  at 
those  talks  I  gave  last  winter,  but  he  never  said  any 
thing  before.  He  was  quite  worked  up  to-day,  how 
ever,  and  finally  put  it  just  about  as  plainly  as  Tom 
did  to  Rachael.  You  know  he  gave  her  the  choice  be 
tween  him,  a  decent  home  in  the  Bro^x — and  her  peo 
ple." 

"Do  I  understand  that  Dr.  Pedloe " 

"Scarcely.  But  he  did  intimate  that  in  future  he 
would  be  grateful  if  I  would  attend  to  my  duties  as  per 
Organization  and  nothing  else.  I  told  him  I  would 
think  it  over  and  he  almost  fell  out  of  his  chair.  He 
simply  can't  conceive  of  any  one  throwing  up  a  per 
fectly  good  job  'with  a  certain  position  in  this  com 
munity,  Mrs.  Herrick.' " 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          205 

"Are  you  going  to?" 

Jean  walked  the  length  of  the  room  and  back  with 
out  answering.  Then  she  came  and  stood  before  the 
doctor. 

"Mary,  I'm  getting  pretty  sick  of  the  whole  thing. 
It's  just  one  tangled  mass  of  red  tape.  Here  we  are, 
literally  hundreds,  right  here  in  New  York — and  think 
of  the  whole  country — intelligent  men  and  women,  do 
ing  what?  We  feed  a  huge  machine  with  our  strength 
and  brains,  and  what  comes  out  of  it?  What  are  we 
doing?  What  evils  are  we  curing?  What  are  we 
constructing?  Nothing!  Absolutely  nothing.  We  are 
an  obsolete  institution.  We  are  of  no  more  use  than 
the  rudimentary  fifth  toe  of  a  horse.  And  we're  not 
even  honest  about  it.  That's  the  greatest  danger. 
We  pretend  to  ourselves  and  to  society,  that's  too  lazy 
to  look  into  it,  that  we  are  tremendously  important. 
We  get  out  reports  that  look  as  if  we  were  safeguard 
ing  humanity  from  all  kinds  of  evil  and  imposture,  and 
spend  thousands  in  keeping  alive  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Jones  got  half  a  ton  of  coal  last  month.  If  we'd  only 
be  honest  about  it !  But  we  pretend  we're  doing  good. 
The  whole  business  is  a  pitiful  survival  of  the  days 
when  a  kind  lady  went  round  in  a  pony  cart  and  gave 
away  red  flannel." 

"I  know  it.  But  most  of  us  can  only  go  on  plodding 
in  the  road  that's  already  made.  We  do  what  we  can 
to  broaden  it  or  make  it  straighter,  and  then  we  die. 
But  if  you  see  another,  Jean,  get  down  on  your  knees, 
like  mummy,  and  thank  God." 

"I  have  been  thinking  a  lot  lately  about  something 
I  would  like  to  try.  I  suppose  you  and  the  T.B's 
have  stirred  some  sleeping  ambitions.  I  don't  know 
that  in  the  end  it  would  set  the  world  on  fire,  but  at 
least  it  would  have  the  vigor  of  honesty.  It  won't  be 
going  round  in  a  rut  worn  a  mile  deep  by  others.  I 
want — hold  tight,  Mary — to  gather  together  all  the 


306         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

strength  going  to  waste  in  women's  clubs  and  harness 
it." 

"Good  Lord!     Women's  Clubs!" 

"Go  right  on,  Mary ;  there  isn't  a  thing  you  can  say 
that  I  haven't  thought  of.  I  know  all  about  the 
fiddling  little  sections  for  doing  fiddling,  unnecessary 
things.  I  know  all  about  the  bickerings  and  miniature 
storms,  every  drawback  to  getting  efficient  action  out 
of  our  sex.  But — this  is  our  century.  It  is  our  first 
real  chance  in  history,  and  I  don't  know  but  what  we're 
measuring  up  pretty  well.  I  suppose  there  are  a  dozen 
bigger  things  one  could  do,  but  for  some  reason  I  want 
to  get  in  on  the  ground  floor  of  this." 

"You  want  to  start  something  all  your  own." 

"That's  it.  I  want  to  start  something.  I  want  to 
organize  a  body,  local  at  first,  but  national  before 
we're  through  with  it,  a  kind  of  woman's  congress  to 
deal  with  all  national  questions  that  concern  women. 
If  we  have  problems  we  ought  to  settle  them,  not  one 
little  handful  here  and  another  there.  And  if  we 
haven't,  then  let's  stop  ranting.  I  don't  want  a  na 
tional  representation  of  clubs  that  have  separate  in 
terests.  It's — well — 'congress'  is  just  as  good  a  name 
as  any  other." 

"Jean,  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  be  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  younger.  I  wouldn't  let  you  get  into  this  alone." 

Something  choked  in  Jean's  throat,  and  the  old 
feeling  that  she  had  had  years  ago  in  the  clinic  on  the 
Hill,  of  gathering  courage  from  this  white-haired 
woman,  swept  over  her. 

"Sometimes,  Mary,  I  feel  as  if  all  the  women  in  the 
world,  who  can't  get  out  somehow,  were  behind  me, 
pushing  me  on." 

Mary  reached  both  hands  to  Jean's  shoulders. 
"They  are,  Jeany — I  believe  they  are." 

"And  sometimes,  Mary,  I  wish  to  Heaven  they'd  let 
me  alone." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          207 

With  a  laugh,  Dr.  Mary  sank  back  into  her  chair. 

"Well,  they  won't.  Now,  tell  me  all  about  it.  It's 
got  the  T.B.'s  beaten  a  mile." 

"Not  to-night.  This  is  one  of  their  pushing  days, 
and  I  feel  as  if  they  had  me  just  about  over  the  edge. 
I'm  all  in,  and  anyhow,  it's  pretty  vague  yet." 

So  they  smoked  and  talked  of  other  things,  but  not 
again  of  Gregory  nor  why  he  had  gone  without  a  word. 

It  was  close  on  twelve  when  Jean  let  herself  into 
the  apartment,  and  saw  the  light  go  suddenly  out 
under  Martha's  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  Jean 
tiptoed  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Mummy,  I  saw  you  do  it  this  time." 

"Well,  dear,  if  I  can't  sleep,  I  didn't  know  that  I 
was  not  allowed  to  read." 

"Not  without  glasses.  Did  you  go  to  the  oculist's 
to-day?"  Jean  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"I  didn't  have  time  to-day.    I'll  go  to-morrow." 

In  the  shaft  of  moonlight,  Martha  looked  very  small 
and  frail.  Jean  bent  and  kissed  her.  "Please,  mummy, 
don't  put  it  off  any  longer.  You  do  need  them." 

"Yes,  dear.  I'll  go  to-morrow.  I  really  will.  I 
promise." 

It  was  not  often  that  Jean  came  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  and  it  made  Martha  happy.  She  wanted 
to  draw  Jean  down  as  if  she  were  a  little  girl  again, 
only  she  knew  that  Jean  hated  more  emotion  than  the 
mood  called  for;  so  she  only  patted  Jean's  hands  and 
smiled. 

But  to-night  Jean  would  not  have  objected.  She 
was  tired  to  the  point  of  being  glad  to  feel  the  worn 
fingers  on  her  own.  For  all  the  way  home  in  the  train, 
back  and  forth  behind  the  plans  for  the  congress,  which 
the  quarrel  with  Pedloe  and  Mary's  faith  had  brought 
sharply  to  the  foreground  of  her  thoughts,  had  moved 
the  thought  of  Gregory. 

Why  had  he  gone  like  that?    Gone  for  weeks.    What 


208          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

had  it  to  do  with  the  strange  mood  of  the  night  he 
had  sat  so  silent,  at  the  window?  Why  had  he  looked 
at  her  like  that  when  he  had  said:  "Well?"  Why  had 
he  said  so  strangely:  "No,  in  that  case,  I  can't." 

"You're  tired,  dear." 

"Yes.  I  guess  I  am.  It's  been  a  busy  day  and  I  had 
one  of  my  periodic  fights  with  Pedloe.  Some  day  he's 
going  to  fire  me,  or  I'm  going  to  resign,  and  he'll  be 
the  most  astonished  thing  alive." 

"Remember,  dear,  once  you  thought  this  the  most 
wonderful  work  in  the  world." 

"I  know.  But  I've  outgrown  it.  It's  such  a  useless 
round.  It  doesn't  get  anywhere." 

Martha  stroked  Jean's  fingers.  "I  wouldn't  do  any 
thing  hasty,  if  I  were  you.  Lots  of  things  straighten 
out  if  you  give  them  time." 

Jean  smiled.  "You  don't  know  Brother  Pedloe, 
mummy;  a  million  years  wouldn't  straighten  out  the 
kinks  in  his  soul.  Besides,  I  guess  he  fits  well  enough. 
It's  the  whole  institution  that's  worn  out — a  relic  of 
twenty  years  ago.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  prison." 

"Well,  don't  make  any  change  hastily.  Wait  until 
you  see  clearly.  You  want  things  to  come  so  quickly, 
Jean,  and  you  want  them  so  hard." 

"I  know."  Jean  slipped  from  the  bed  and  leaned 
over  the  quiet  face.  "But  not  to-night,  mummy.  I 
want  nothing  in  the  world  but  my  own  comfortable 
bed." 

Martha  looked  anxiously  at  her.  "Pat  was  over 
this  afternoon,  to  see  whether  you  were  dead  or  alive. 
She  says  she  doesn't  suppose  she'll  ever  see  you  again 
until  the  building's  up." 

"I  don't  suppose  she  will." 

"She's  so  proud  of  the  baby,  Jean,  and  he  is  a  dear. 
Don't  you  think  you  could  take  an  hour  or  two  and 
run  over?  She  would  be  so  pleased.  Pat  loves  you, 
Jean." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          209 

"I'll  try.  Maybe.  Goodnight,  dear,  and  don't  for 
get  to  wake  me.  Seven  and  not  a  quarter  past.  You 
will,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  dear.  Goodnight.  And  try  not  to  think  of 
work,  but  go  straight  to  sleep." 

Jean  promised  and  shut  the  door. 

But  the  weight  of  Martha's  unshakeable  patience, 
of  Pat's  efficiency  and  unswerving  love,  of  Gregory's 
life  beyond  her  knowledge,  all  this  settled  security,  this 
sureness  of  others,  oppressed  her,  so  that,  even  between 
cool  sheets,  the  ordered  round  of  daily  intercourse 
seemed  a  difficult  and  intricate  maneuvering  among 
unknown  quantities. 

Why  had  Gregory  gone  like  that? 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

FOR  the  first  week  a  feeling  of  relief  in  going  with 
out  writing  to  Jean  had  persisted  in  the  back 
ground  of  Gregory's  mind.  But  as  the  heat  increased, 
and  the  improvements  suggested  by  Amos  Palmer  and 
his  wife  rasped  Gregory's  nerves  to  snapping,  he 
realized  that  he  had  been  colossally  rude.  He  had  acted 
so  badly  that  he  could  not  write  except  to  apologize, 
and  he  could  not  do  that  without  explaining;  which 
was  impossible  because  there  was  nothing  to  explain, 
at  least  nothing  that  would  not  prove  him  the  fool  he 
had  been. 

What  had  been  his  motive?  He  did  not  know,  and 
now  that  he  was  speeding  back  on  the  Express  to 
New  York,  he  did  not  care. 

From  Harlem  to  the  Grand  Central,  Gregory  sat 
in  the  smoker,  his  suitcase  at  his  feet,  his  hat  on,  hoping 
that  Jean  had  no  engagement  that  would  prevent  her 
from  going  to  dinner.  He  wanted  to  sit  opposite  Jean 
and  tell  her  about  the  Palmers,  the  endless  alterations 
that  every  few  days,  had  thrown  him  into  a  rage  and 
a  resolution  to  quit.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  about  the 
house,  as  it  was  finally  working  out,  a  compromise  be 
tween  Amos'  ideals  and  his  own  efforts  to  keep  the 
man  from  being  a  laughing  stock.  He  wanted  to  hear 
Jean's  chuckle  of  appreciation,  for  now  that  he  had  left 
it  all  definitely  behind,  it  certainly  was  funny. 

When  Jean  heard  the  telephone  in  the  outer  office 
ring,  she  answered  quickly.  It  was  one  of  those  blind- 
ingly  hot  afternoons  in  late  September,  after  a  com 
paratively  cool  spell,  when  summer  comes  back  with 

210 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          211 

vindictive  pleasure,  like  a  cantankerous  relative  from 
the  verge  of  the  grave,  to  spoil  one's  just  expectations. 
For  two  hours  Jean  had  clutched  her  patience  and  held 
on  through  the  exhausting  insistence  of  the  Friday 
Committee  to  do  its  duty.  With  the  excuse  that  she 
was  expecting  an  important  message  and  would  have 
to  answer  personally,  Jean  escaped  for  a  moment. 

At  the  sound  of  Gregory's  voice,  Jean's  heart  beat 
furiously  and  then  seemed  to  stop. 

"Hello.  HELLO.  I  want  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Her- 
rick,  please." 

"This  is  Mrs.  Herrick." 

"Hello.     This  is  Gregory  Allen." 

"Well!"  It  came  with  just  the  right  degree  of 
heartiness.  "When  did  you  get  back?" 

"About  two  minutes  ago.  Am  I  in  time  to  take  you 
to  dinner?  Hello.  Hello.  I  say,  Central,  you've  cut 
me  off.  I  want " 

"Hello.  No,  they  haven't  cut  off.  I'm  trying  to 
'phone,  and  listen  to  a  meeting  in  the  other  room  at 
the  same  time."  With  the  ease  of  this  falsehood,  Jean's 
composure  crept  back. 

"Who  is  it,— The  Dalton?" 

"Yes,  after  a  month's  rest." 

"I'll  come  straight  down  and  rescue  you.  Give 
everybody  a  ton  of  ice  all  around  and  close  the  meet- 
ing." 

"It's  milk,"  Jean  whispered  into  the  receiver,  "the 
Caseys  have  had  a  quart  a  day  for  three  weeks !  We've 
been  half  an  hour  on  it  now." 

"It  sounds  like  an  all-night  session,  but  I'm  coming 
just  the  same.  Six  thirty,  will  that  be  all  right?" 

"Six  would  be  better.  I  promised  Rachael  to  see 
her  to-night  before  eight." 

"All  right.     Six.     How's  everything?" 

"Beyond  our  dreams.     Did  you  put  on  the  turret?" 


212          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Worse.  A  cupola  with  an  electric  globe  on  top,  a 
kind  of  spherical  Star  of  Bethlehem." 

"Nothing  but  a  blue-print  will  convince  me.  Bring 
it  down." 

She  hung  up  and  sat  staring  at  the  floor  until  a 
sudden  cessation  of  voices  in  the  next  room  attracted 
her.  Reluctantly  she  went  back. 

"We've  decided  to  continue  the  Casey  milk  for  an 
other  week,  Mrs.  Herrick,  until  I  have  had  time  to  look 
more  thoroughly  into  the  reason  of  Casey's  losing  his 
last  job." 

Mrs.  J.  William  Dalton's  expression  conveyed  that 
after  that,  not  even  Jean  herself  could  do  anything; 

"Very  well,  I  think  that  would  be  wisest."  Jean  did 
not  sit  down  again,  but  stood  at  the  table  fingering  the 
mass  of  records.  "And  I  think  we've  done  enough  for 
to-day." 

Mrs.  Dalton  opened  her  lips,  thought  better  of  it, 
and  made  no  objection.  It  was  hot,  and  if  she  started 
to  fight  out  the  Monarco  case  with  Berna  it  would  be 
another  hour  before  she  could  get  home,  take  off  her 
corsets,  and  have  William  forbid  her  "once  and  for 
all  to  go  getting  all  tired  out  with  that  Charity  dope." 

"Very  well." 

The  Friday  Committee  groaned  with  relief,  pushed 
back  the  chairs,  and  gradually  rustled  away. 

Jean  washed  her  hands  and  changed  to  the  clean 
blouse  that  she  kept  for  emergencies.  She  had  just 
finished  when  the  elevator  stopped,  the  outer  door 
opened  and  Gregory  crossed  to  the  private  office. 
Jean  opened  the  door  before  he  knocked,  and  they 
stood  for  a  moment,  one  on  each  side  of  the  threshold. 

"My,  but  it's  good  to  get  back.    You  look  ripping." 

Every  pulse  in  Jean  answered  so  suddenly  and  un 
expectedly  to  the  clasp  of  his  fingers,  that  she  almost 
lost  the  non-committal  greeting  flitting  in  her  brain. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          213 

"So  do  you,  and  I  don't  believe  a  word  about  the 
Star  of  Bethlehem." 

"Well,  it's  true,  whether  you  believe  it  or  not.  A 
heavily-powered  arc-light  right  on  top." 

Jean  withdrew  her  hands  and  turned  to  get  her  hat 
from  its  peg.  Gregory  watched  her.  She  was  extraor 
dinarily  strong  and  cleanly  cut  for  a  woman.  Every 
motion  she  made  was  firm  and  carried  decision  with  it, 
as  if  from  a  mass  of  possibilities  she  chose  that 
particular  thing  and  nothing  else. 

"All  right,  I'll  believe  it.  After  all  it's  not  more 
extraordinary  than  what  we  accomplished.  You're 
not  the  only  one  with  news." 

"Is  Fenninger  still  alive?  Or  did  he  make  his  will 
in  your  favor  and  die  of  indigestion?" 

"Neither.  But  you'll  have  to  wait.  I'm  not  going 
to  read  my  lines  without  the  proper  back-drop." 

"Will  The  Fiesole  do,  or  isn't  that  swell  enough  for 
the  Doctor?" 

"It  will  do  nicely;  he'll  think  he's  slumming." 

The  Fiesole  was  Mary's  favorite  place,  and  this 
was  the  first  time  they  had  eaten  there  without  her. 
Jean  wondered  if  that  were  why  it  seemed  so  different. 
She  felt  that  this  was  a  new  environment,  and  yet 
there  were  the  same  long  rooms,  stretching  back  from 
the  street  balcony  on  which  they  sat.  There  were 
the  same  waiters,  hurrying  at  the  same  gait,  as  if 
they  had  been  wound  by  machinery  to  a  set  speed 
which  they  could  never  lessen  or  increase  by  their 
individual  wills.  There  was  the  same  orchestra, 
sheltered  behind  the  dingy  palms,  playing  the  same 
semi-classical,  popular  music.  There  was  the  steady 
buzz  of  talk  and  the  same  people  might  have  been  sitting 
there  for  months.  The  heat  had  in  it  the  same  feel  of 
dust,  as  if  it  held  the  disillusioned  souls  of  millions, 
ground  to  powder  in  their  struggle  for  f orgetf ulness ; 
there  was  the  same  odor  of  highly  spiced  food,  like  too 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

strong  scent;  the  same  sensuous  music,  the  passion  in 
its  heart  hidden  under  the  cloak  of  form,  except  when 
it  broke  through  and  flicked  the  senses,  till  men  touched 
women's  hands  in  filling  their  glasses  and  the  women 
leaned  across  the  table. 

"Well,  you  look  as  if  you  had  never  seen  it  before. 
Doesn't  it  suit  Fenninger,  after  all?" 

Across  the  table  Gregory  was  smiling.  He  looked 
happy  and  younger  than  Jean  had  ever  seen  him. 

"Perfectly.  But  he'd  like  any  place  where  he  was 
the  richest  man  in  it  and  people  could  see  him  spend 
money." 

While  they  waited  for  the  first  course,  Gregory  told 
her  of  Palmer's  suggestions  and  Mrs.  Palmer's  struggle 
between  pride  at  being  able  to  spend  as  much  as  she 
liked,  and  uncertainty  as  to  the  taste. 

"She  has  just  one  criterion,  a  hotel  she  once  worked 
in  that  had  green  marble  walls  in  the  hall,  and  blue  vel 
vet  furniture  in  the  lobby.  It  was  evidently  large  and 
rather  quiet  because  she  has  kept  an  impression  of 
something  'terribly  genteel.'  She  measures  everything 
by  it,  the  timbre  of  your  voice,  the  way  you  take  off 
your  hat,  and  the  thickness  of  the  stair  carpet.  She's 
as  pretty  as  a  picture.  The  whole  thing  would  be  re 
pulsive,  that  old  man  wallowing  in  his  money  and 
passion  for  this  child,  except  for  a  kind  of  honest 
eagerness  in  the  girl  herself.  He  wants  to  take  her 
somewhere  abroad  to  get  the  edges  rubbed  off,  and  give 
his  grown  children  a  chance  to  cool  down.  She'll  get 
the  edges  rubbed  off,  and  some  of  his,  too,  long  before 
he  thinks  it's  time  to  come  home.  But  she'll  always  be 
grateful,  and  never  let  people  make  fun  of  him." 

"Poor  child.  I  hope  they  won't  get  rubbed  too 
smooth  before  she  sees  the  star  again." 

"No.  It'll  take  a  bit  longer  than  that.  Besides  the 
pergola  will  be  the  first  to  go ;  she  isn't  sure  of  it  even 
now,  with  Turkish  lamps  of  colored  glass  and  Japanese 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          215 

wind-bells.  In  about  three  years  she'll  make  him 
sell  it." 

"I'll  keep  an  eye  on  it.  It's  rather  far,  but  it  would 
make  a  glorious  convalescent  home,  if  we  could  get  it 
for  nothing." 

"No  doubt  you  could." 

They  laughed  in  understanding. 

"Exit  Amos.       What  did  you  do  to  Fenninger?" 

"It  worked  "like  a  charm.  We  didn't  tell  mummy  a 
thing  except  that  a  friend  of  Mary's  was  in  town  for 
a  few  days,  and  she  wanted  him  to  have  one  really  good 
home  dinner.  Mummy  rose  to  the  bait  and  begged 
for  more.  As  a  relative  I  can't  brag  about  that  dinner 
but,  by  the  time  we  got  to  a  frozen  dream  of  mummy's 
invention,  he  believed  that  the  whole  idea  had  originated 
with  himself.  And  by  the  time  the  percolator  got  to 
bubbling  he  gave  me  a  check  for  three  thousand  as  if 
he  were  hiring  me  to  attend  to  a  few  minor  details  he 
had  no  time  for." 

"Poor  devil!  And  his  part's  only  just  begun.  Does 
he  know  he's  going  to  operate  on  people  for  the  re 
mainder?" 

"He's  not.  He  just  advises  the  operations;  Mary 
and  I  do  the  surgery." 

"Who  is  it?"  Gregory  was  grinning,  his  small-boy 
grin. 

"It's  not  a  'who.'  It's  an  it.  Fenninger's  pet  case 
is  a  millionaire,  cirrhosis  of  the  liver,  with  two  pieces 
of  property  on  the  East  River,  one  in  the  upper  fifties 
and  one  in  the  nineties.  He  thinks  we  can  get  either 
on  a  small  lease;  it  can't  be  deeded  over  altogether  be 
cause  of  some  legal  tangle,  but  it's  perfectly  safe. 
Mary  and  I  are  going  to  make  our  choice  this  Sunday." 

"I  want  to  help,  may  I?"  There  was  a  pause. 
Something  hung  in  the  balance.  •  And  then  Gregory 
said  dully: 

"Be  sure  to  choose  the  right  one." 


216         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"We  will.    Mary  is  good  at  that  kind  of  thing." 

The  waiter  brushed  off  the  crumbs  and  brought  the 
coffee.  When  they  began  talking  again  the  mood  had 
changed.  Gregory  told  Jean  of  a  competition  to  build 
a  Peoples'  Auditorium  in  Chicago.  It  was  open  to  the 
architects  of  America,  and  he  had  played  with  the 
idea  through  the  hot,  lonely  nights  of  the  past  month. 

"Whenever  the  pergola  got  too  much,  I  took  a  swat 
at  this." 

"Well?" 

Gregory  shrugged.  "It  was  good  fun.  It  saved 
Palmer's  life  more  often  than  he  knew." 

"When  can  I  see  them?" 

Gregory  ground  the  ash  of  his  cigarette  into  the 
cloth  as  he  answered: 

"They're  in  the  waste-basket.  I  was  afraid  to  keep 
them  around,  like  a  drunkard  with  a  bottle  of  whiskey." 

"Why?" 

After  a  moment,  Gregory  answered :  "It's  years  since 
I've  done  anything  but  Stephens  and  Palmer  houses." 

Jean  reached  for  the  little  silver  coffee  pot  and  held 
it  over  her  cup.  But  it  was  several  moments  before 
she  noticed  that  there  was  no  more  coffee  in  the  pot. 
She  put  it  down. 

"That's  no  reason." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is.    If  I  don't  try,  I  can't  fail." 

Gregory's  lips  smiled  but  his  eyes  were  tired.  Jean 
looked  away. 

"You  wouldn't  fail.    I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  fail." 

"It's  almost  twelve  years  since  I  left  the  Beaux  Arts, 
and  I'm  putting  electric  stars  on  Palmer  pergolas." 

"You  are  not!" 

"Yes,  I  am,  and  glad  to  do  it.  You  don't  understand. 
Why,  the  night  that  I  thought  most  seriously  about 
entering  the  contest,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  presuming, 
doing  something  I  had  no  right  to  do.  I  walked  till 
almost  morning  in  the  woods,  and  then  I  threw  the 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          217 

beginnings  I  had  made  away.  You  don't  understand. 
The  worms  have  been  at  work  too  long  inside." 

"They  have  not."  The  emphasis  pricked  like  a 
sword.  Jean  was  leaning  to  him  across  the  table. 
"You  are  not  glad  to  put  arc  lights  on  pergolas,  and 
the  worm  has  never  gnawed  at  all.  It's  not  what  you 
do  that  makes  a  failure  or  what  you  don't  do.  It's 
what  we  no  longer  dream  of  doing,  and — you  do  want 
to  enter." 

The  throbbing  assurance  drew  Gregory's  eyes.  He 
tried  to  smile. 

"But  think  of  all  the  young,  undefeated  men  whose 
souls  have  not  been  Palmerized." 

Jean's  eyes  were  black  and  stern,  as  Puck's  were 
sometimes. 

"Your  soul  has  not  been  Palmerized.  Nothing  can 
hurt  us  unless  we  let  it." 

Gregory's  fingers  trembled  as  he  lit  another  ciga 
rette.  Did  she  believe  that  really,  of  every  one?  Was 
it  abstract  faith,  a  gauge  by  which  she  measured  men, 
or  was  it  for  him?  He  had  to  know. 

"Then  why  didn't  I  go  ahead?  There's  nothing 
exterior  to  prevent  me." 

"Because,"  Jean  said  slowly,  "because,  when  we  can 
really  do  big  things,  the  light  at  first  blinds  and  rather 
confuses.  But  you  get  used  to  the  light  and  go  ahead. 
You  will  draw  the  plans  again." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  before  Gregory  said,  with 
out  looking  up: 

"I  believe  I  shall.     And  it  will  be  all  your  fault." 

Jean's  smile  was  uncertain,  too,  as  she  replied: 

"All  right.     I'm  willing  to  take  the  blame." 

They  drank  the  last  drops  of  cold  coffee  to  The 
Auditorium,  and  then  Jean  looked  at  her  watch  and 
got  up  quickly. 

"There  seems  something  specially  fatal  about  plans 


218          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  the  strike.  I  promised  Rachael  to  see  her  to 
night.  I've  got  to  run." 

"Wait.    I'll  walk  down  with  you." 

"I  may  have  to  stay  some  time.  I'm  worried  about 

Ray "  Before  the  look  in  Gregory's  eyes,  Jean 

stopped.  She  knew  he  had  not  heard  although  he  was 
looking  directly  at  her.  She  sought  for  words  to  pre 
vent  his  coming,  but  she  knew  they  would  be  useless 
even  if  she  found  them. 

Gregory  paid  the  check  and  they  left  the  restaurant. 
In  absolute  silence  they  walked  along  Division  Street, 
between  the  rows  of  shrieking  hucksters,  and  past  the 
babies  tumbling  in  their  path.  They  halted  before  a 
dirty  tenement  on  Essex  Street.  Again  Jean  tried  to 
think  of  something  to  say  that  would  turn  Gregory 
back,  and  could  not.  So  close  that  she  could  almost 
feel  his  body  touching  hers,  they  mounted  the  first 
two  flights  with  their  imitation  tiling  and  flickering 
gas,  the  third  with  its  cracked  plaster,  the  fourth 
with  no  lights  at  all,  and  the  fifth,  so  dark  that  they 
had  to  feel  their  way  by  the  greasy  wooden  wall. 

There  was  no  light  under  Rachael's  door.  "I  don't' 
believe  she's  in.  There  must  be  something  wrong. 
Terribly  wrong." 

Gregory  did  not  answer.  She  could  hear  him  breath 
ing  in  quick,  deep  breaths.  She  began  knocking  sharply 
and  calling.  But  no  one  answered.  Jean  turned  the 
handle.  The  door  opened.  It  was  silent  and  dark 
and  stifling. 

"I  think  I  had  better  leave  a  note."  Jean  entered 
the  kitchen,  and  Gregory  crossed  the  threshold  and 
stood  close. 

"Have  you  a  match?  I — think — I'd  better — leave 
a  note."  Against  the  weight  holding  her  back,  Jean 
forced  herself  forward  toward  the  front  room,  lit  palely 
in  the  light  from  the  street  lamps  far  below.  Gregory 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          219 

could  see  her  outlined  in  the  hot  blackness.  He  turned 
and  closed  the  outer  door. 

"Haven't  you  a  match?"  Jean  groped  in  the  space 
before  her,  for  Gregory  was  crossing  the  kitchen  now, 
was  coming  to  her. 

"Haven't  you — one — match?** 

"No,"  Gregory  answered  at  random,  "no."  His 
mouth  was  parched,  although  his  whole  body  was 
bathed  in  cold  damp. 

Jean's  hand  touched  a  little  brass  match  safe  under 
the  wall  gas-bracket.  Her  fingers  closed  on  it,  and  for 
a  moment  she  stood  gripping  it,  leaning  against  the 
bamboo  table  under  the  bracket.  Then  a  yellow  glare 
absorbed  the  darkness,  and  Jean  sat  down  at  the  table. 
Gregory  drew  one  quick,  deep  breath  and  moistened 
his  lips. 

Jean  found  a  scrap  of  paper  and  a  pencil  in  her 
handbag,  and  the  pencil,  obeying  a  law  of  its  own, 
moved.  Jean  folded  the  note  and  stuck  it  in  a  corner 
of  the  mirror.  If  Rachael  came  home  she  must  see  it. 

"There."  Jean  rose  and  stood  with  her  hand  on 
the  gas-cock.  "If  you'll  light  the  light  on  the  landing 
first — it's  just  outside,  it's  hard  negotiating  this 
labyrinth." 

Gregory  obeyed.  Jean  turned  out  the  gas  and  fol 
lowed.  They  went  down  the  stairs  in  silence.  Without 
a  word  they  walked  through  the  crowded  street  and 
turned  west  to  the  nearest  Subway.  At  the  entrance 
Gregory  stopped. 

"I  think  I'll  take  the  El.  It's  just  as  near  for  me 
and  a  lot  cooler.  Good-night.  And  don't  abscond 
with  the  strike  benefits." 

Jean  nodded.  "No.  I  won't.  And  don't  put  a 
pergola  on  the  auditorium." 

The  tone  was  brisk.  Jean  smiled  back  as  she  van 
ished  into  the  entrance  hole.  Gregory  turned  away. 
He  hated  her. 


220         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jean  was  grateful  for  the  stifling  air  of  the  tunnel, 
the  noise,  the  lights,  the  groups  waiting  for  the  train. 
It  was  familiar  and  safe.  Wedged  between  a  fat  Jew 
in  a  black  alpaca  coat,  and  a  sleeping  Italian  plasterer, 
covered  with  the  dust  of  his  trade,  Jean  stared  before 
her.  Had  she  said  those  last  words  at  all,  or  only 
mouthed  them? 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

JEAN  never  knew  by  what  power  she  left  the  train 
at  the  right  station,  nor  how  she  sat  as  usual  for  a 
few  moments  on  Martha's  bed  and  told  her  of  the 
meeting.  She  had  no  memory  of  kissing  Martha  good 
night  nor  coming  to  her  own  room. 

But  she  must  have  done  these  things,  because  an 
other  day  was  creeping  out  of  the  east,  and  she  still 
sat  by  the  window,  trying  to  think,  but  the  motive 
power  of  her  brain  was  dead.  There  was  no  explana 
tion,  no  reason,  no  wonder  at  it.  Analysis  and  ex 
planation  were  the  pipings  of  crickets,  extinguished  in 
a  crash  of  thunder.  There  was  only  the  thing  itself. 
She  loved  Gregory  Allen  with  a  love  that  she  had  not 
known  existed.  It  was  a  terrific  wave,  crushing  upon 
her  from  the  outside.  It  was  so  far  beyond  her  will  or 
control,  that  the  thought  of  beating  it  back  was 
drowned  in  its  own  flood. 

All  her  life  led  to  the  moment  when  she  had  stood  in 
the  dark  alone  with  him  and  been  afraid.  All  her 
life  she  had  been  walking  blindfolded  to  this  point  of 
blazing  light.  It  reached  back  to  the  days  when  she 
had  longed  so  passionately  for  something  to  happen, 
for  something  to  smash  the  sordid  monotony  of  duti 
ful  acceptance.  It  held  all  the  beauty  to  which  she 
had  clung  so  desperately.  It  had  been  the  driving 
power  of  the  wind  over  the  hills,  the  lashing  of  the  rain, 
the  sparkle  of  the  sun  on  the  Bay.  It  had  whispered 
its  reality  in  the  moving  leaves,  called  loudly  in  the 
wash  of  the  waves  on  the  sand.  It  had  always  been 
there  close,  all  through  her  lonely  childhood,  the  dreary 

221 


222          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

years  of  college,  and  in  those  long  days  in  the  open 
with  Herrick.  It  had  come  close  in  the  wrapping  fog 
and  the  crackle  of  the  beach  fires  in  the  little  coves 
where  she  and  Herrick  had  talked  for  hours  with  dead 
poets. 

Jean  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  For  in  the 
dawn,  creeping  up  the  river,  Herrick  was  coming  to 
ward  her.  In  the  motionless  void  between  two  days, 
he  stood  looking  at  her.  And  Jean  knew  that  behind 
the  fear  that  had  dragged  her  to  the  gas  bracket  above 
the  bamboo  table  was  the  longing  for  Gregory's  arms 
about  her. 

When  the  tips  of  the  trees  lit  to  gold,  Jean  rose  and 
crept  into  bed. 

It  was  almost  three  o'clock  when  Gregory  let  him 
self  into  the  apartment,  and  the  air  of  the  place,  closed 
for  weeks,  rushed  at  him  as  if  it  had  been  waiting. 
With  the  force  of  a  physical  blow  it  shattered  the 
peace  he  had  won  in  the  long  battle  he  had  fought,  alone 
in  his  office,  after  leaving  Jean.  He  opened  the  win 
dows  slowly.  Then  he  came  back  again  into  the  living 
room  and  the  weary  round  began  again. 

He  wanted  Jean  with  the  pent-up  longing  of  years. 
He  wanted  her  with  a  need  from  which  there  was  no 
escape.  He  had  always  wanted  her,  from  the  first 
moment  when  he  had  come  late  to  the  appointment 
and  Jean  had  explained  the  scheme  to  him  in  her  brisk, 
businesslike  fashion.  He  had  wanted  her  all  through 
the  summer,  through  every  moment  of  it.  Through 
the  long  talks  alone,  while  Mary  studied  or  slept  in 
the  room  beyond.  Through  every  gay  dinner,  and 
boring  interminable  week-end.  He  had  wanted  her 
desperately  when  he  ran  away  to  the  Palmer  place. 
And  his  need  had  thrust  almost  through  his  conscious 
ness  during  those  interminable  hours  coming  back  to 
her. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          223 

He  had  wanted  her  as  she  crossed  the  office  only  a 
few  hours  before,  and  he  had  wanted  her  terribly  as 
she  leaned  across  the  table,  the  faith  in  her  clear  eyes 
flicking  to  life  all  the  dreams  that  life  with  Margaret 
had  killed. 

And  up  in  the  reeking  blackness  shutting  them  in 
alone  together,  high  in  the  air,  with  Jean  across  the 
room,  blocked  faintly  in  that  same  blackness,  he  had 
wanted  her.  And  he  had  resisted.  Against  the  cur 
rent  dragging  him  to  the  center  of  life,  he  had  clung 
to  his  silly  little  rock  of — what?  No  thought  of  Mar 
garet  had  entered  his  mind.  No  fear  or  convention. 
Neither  custom  nor  social  rule  had  anything  to  do 
with  this.  Of  what  had  he  been  afraid? 

Gregory's  forehead  was  damp,  and  he  slumped  low 
in  his  chair.  He  might  have  held  her  in  his  arms, 
crushed  her  resistance,  kissed  her  to  the  ease  of  that 
gnawing  hunger  within.  .  .  .  What  if  she  had  resisted  ? 
.  .  .  And  she  might  not  have  resisted.  She  was  no  girl 
of  eighteen,  desired  for  the  first  time.  She  was  a 
woman.  She  had  been  married,  married  to  a  libertine. 

"Good  God!"  Gregory  jumped  to  his  feet.  "I  am 
rotten,  rotten  clear  through." 

But  the  pictures  would  not  go.  Their  vividness 
tortured  Gregory  to  motion  and  until  dawn  he  walked 
a  beaten  path  through  the  living-room,  across  the  din 
ing-room,  back  to  the  living-room  through  the  hall.  At 
five  o'clock  he  threw  himself  on  the  couch. 

He  slept  heavily  until  eight,  then  took  a  cold  bath 
and  prepared  some  coffee.  He  was  at  the  office  before 
nine.  The  desk  was  piled  with  a  month's  accumulation 
that  had  gotten  beyond  Benson,  and  Gregory  was 
grateful  that  it  had.  He  worked  through  without  a 
break  until  four  o'clock.  Then  he  segregated  the  most 
pressing  business,  packed  his  portfolio  and  caught  the 
Long  Island  Express. 

Puck    came    hurtling    down    the    path,    screaming: 


224          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Daddy !  My  Daddy !"  Margaret  came,  too,  not  hur 
riedly,  but  with  just  the  right  degree  of  welcome  and 
surprise  in  her  eyes.  Her  cool  lips  took  the  meaning 
less  kiss  that  still  passed  between  them  on  all  their 
meetings  and  partings,  for,  with  the  death  of  all  real 
ity,  they  had  grown  wonderfully  careful  of  these  insin 
cerities.  She  led  the  way  to  the  house,  while  Puck 
capered  beside  him,  and  they  had  an  early  dinner. 

Later,  Gregory  lit  his  pipe  and  wandered  through 
the  woods  in  the  dusk  with  Puck,  but  often  Puck  jerked 
his  hand  and  cried  impatiently: 

"Daddy,  aren't  you  listening  to  Lady  Jane?" 
Gregory    stayed    until    the    following    Wednesday. 
When  he  went  back,  Margaret  and  Puck  went,  too. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

IT  was  the  end  of  October.  The  trees  in  the  parks 
and  along  the  Palisades  were  bare,  but  the  sun  still 
shone  and  children  danced  in  the  streets  to  the  music 
of  the  hurdy-gurdies.  On  Fifth  Avenue,  women  in 
costly  furs  drove  from  shop  to  shop,  buying  greedily. 
Starved  through  their  long  summer  with  the  mountains 
and  the  sea,  they  bought  laces  and  jewels  and  still 
more  costly  furs.  Down  in  the  restaurants  of  the 
foreign  quarters,  the  proprietors  had  taken  in  the 
little  tables  and  dismantled  the  artificial  gardens.  The 
husbands  of  the  women  in  costly  furs  now  dined  at 
home  or  in  their  uptown  clubs. 

Everywhere  people  settled  to  their  winter's  work. 
The  strikers  and  manufacturers  were  locked  in  a  death 
grip,  and  Jean  often  sat  up  half  the  night  with  Rachael* 
Rachael  was  whiter  and  more  flamelike  than  ever.  She 
never  mentiond  Tom,  but  Jean  knew  that  he  had  mar 
ried  a  girl  of  his  own  faith  and  that  Rachael  knew. 

Then,  on  the  fifteenth  the  manufacturers  capitulated. 
With  almost  all  their  demands  granted  the  strikers 
went  back  to  work.  No  jubilant  mass  meeting  marked 
the  victory.  Worn  with  the  long  fight  the  workers 
went  back  quietly.  Jean  felt  as  if  something  had  gone 
out  of  her  life.  The  settlement  left  vacant  hours,  and 
she  wanted  something  to  fill  every  moment.  For  the 
thought  of  Gregory  was  always  waiting,  ready  to 
slip  in. 

From  dreading  ever  to  see  him  again,  Jean  had 
passed  through  hours  when  nothing  else  mattered, 
dizzy  hours  when  she  juggled  with  excuses  for  com- 

225 


226          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

municating  with  him  and  persuaded  herself  that  it  was 
the  perfectly  natural  thing  to  do.  And  there  were 
hours,  lying  awake  at  night,  when  she  did  not  think 
of  herself  at  all,  but  went  round  and  round  the  end 
less  circle  of  Gregory's  motives.  That  he  had  shared 
her  fear  never  entered  Jean's  mind,  for  so  deep  and 
hidden  was  the  longing  to  believe  that  he  cared,  that 
not  even  Jean's  analysis  dragged  it  to  light.  One  im 
possible  reason  after  another  Jean  grasped  and  held 
for  a  little  while,  and  then  it  slipped  away.  He  was 
busy.  He  meant  to  ring  up  or  write  or  come — and 
didn't.  Summer  and  winter  were  two  different  worlds 
in  New  York.  He  had  been  bored  and  lonely  then; 
now  his  days  were  full. 

Jean  held  to  this  firmly,  and,  as  the  weeks  slipped 
away,  succeeded  in  believing  it.  Still,  she  was  glad 
when  Mary  at  last  stopped  mentioning  him.  Shortly 
after  Thanksgiving,  Jean  and  the  doctor  made  up  the 
list  of  invitations  to  the  tea,  with  which,  in  what  now 
seemed  another  life,  they  had  threatened  Gregory.  Dr. 
Mary  jabbed  her  pencil  through  his  name,  which  headed 
the  old  list  made  up  that  hot  June  night. 

"It's  your  business,  of  course,  Jean,  and  you  can 
do  as  you  like;  but  /  wouldn't  ask  him,  for  anything. 
I  don't  believe  it  will  make  any  difference,  and  we  have 
Fenninger.  It's  really  going  to  look  terribly  imposing, 
the  building  plans  and  the  lot  diagram,  too." 

"I  don't  want  to  ask  him.  Fenninger  will  be  the 
whole  show  and  more." 

But,  a  week  later,  as  Jean  moved  through  the 
crowded  rooms,  explaining  the  same  things  over  and 
over,  receiving  congratulations  and  the  more  substan 
tial  promises  of  checks,  her  eyes  kept  wandering  to 
the  door.  And  she  knew  she  was  hoping  that  some 
how  Gregory  would  come.  There  was  no  way  that  he 
could  know,  and  yet For  what  seemed  inter 
minable  lengths  of  time  Jean  kept  her  back  deliberately 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          227 

to  the  door,  and  then,  when  she  was  sure  that  it  did 
not  matter  to  her  at  all,  turned,  and  for  one  brief  sec 
ond — so  vividly  was  he  in  her  imagining — saw  him  with 
his  badly  fitting  clothes  and  the  happy  twinkle  in  his 
eyes. 

When  the  last  guest  had  gone,  Mary  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  groaned. 

"It  was  a  success  all  right,  but  thank  God  it's  over. 
Jean,  that  is  my  idea  of  Hell." 

Jean  was  looking  out  to  the  bare  trees  of  the  Park. 
It  was  empty,  and  bits  of  paper  blew  in  a  gusty  wind 
about  the  paths.  A  leaden  sky  hung  low  and  the  arc 
light  was  not  yet  lit.  Jean  shivered. 

"It's  mine,  too,"  she  said,  and  the  tears  suddenly 
welled  in  her  eyes  and  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

"Why,  Jean,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?" 

Jean  brushed  at  the  tears  and  tried  to  smile.  "I  sup 
pose  I've  been  more  worried  about  this  going  off  well 
than  I  knew.  It's  finished,  too ;  nothing  left  but  to  build 
now.  It's  rather  like  a  death  somehow." 

Dr.  Mary  looked  thoughtfully  at  Jean's  back.  It 
was  not  at  all  like  Jean  to  cry  because  a  piece  of 
work  was  successfully  finished.  In  fact,  she  had  never 
seen  Jean  cry  before. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  didn't  need  a  rest,  Mrs. 
Herrick,  in  spite  of  that  energy  of  yours.  I  don't  be 
lieve  you  had  a  decent,  leisurely  meal  all  those  last 
weeks  of  the  strike.  Will  you  take  one?" 

For  a  moment  Jean  did  not  know  whether  she  was 
going  to  laugh  or  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of 
crying.  She  turned  away  from  the  window. 

"Certainly  not.  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life.  It's 
partly  these  candles.  I  hate  the  things.  They  always 
look  like  funerals  or  a  church.  Let's  have  some  practi 
cal,  plebeian  light." 

She  switched  on  the  electricity  and  then  went  round 
blowing  out  the  candles.  By  the  time  they  were  all  out, 


228          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jean  had  worked  up  a  disgust  of  herself  that  deceived 
the  doctor. 

"It's  not  less  work  that  I  need,  but  more.  I  haven't 
had  a  fight  with  Pedloe  for  a  month,  and  the  strike's 
so  terribly  settled  I  feel  as  if  there  was  never  going 
to  be  another  dispute  worth  mentioning  between 
capital  and  labor  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life." 

"Cheer  up.  Society  is  beautifully  rotten  yet.  Be 
sides,  just  think  of  that  talk  you're  scheduled  for  on 
— Municipal  Housekeeping,  I  believe  you  said,  Mrs. 
Herrick?" 

"Garbage,  Dr.  MacLean,  garbage,  flies  and  infant 
mortality." 

They  laughed.  "Jean,  really  we  women  are  a 
scream,  though  no  man  would  draw  that  out  of  me 
with  red-hot  pincers.  Why,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  has  everything  got  to  be  Housekeeping?" 

"Because  we've  been  locked  up  so  long  that  we're 
afraid  of  the  open.  And  we  haven't  got  over  the  idea 
that  we  have  to  placate  men,  even  yet,  with  a  suffrage 
organization  in  every  State.  They  still  like  to  think 
of  us,  running  between  the  cradle  and  the  stove,  so 
every  mortal  thing  we  do  we've  got  to  hitch  up  some 
way  to  a  home.  Decent  milk,  and  the  regulation  of 
food  prices,  and  garbage,  divorce,  child  labor,  widows' 
pensions,  are  all  'National  Housekeeping,'  and  it  sounds 
as  if  we  had  only  moved  into  a  larger  house." 

"Is  that  what  you're  going  to  tell  them  to-morrow? 
If  it  is,  I'm  going  to  stay  right  here  and  go,  even  if 
Third  Cousin  Nelly  never  speaks  to  me  again.  And 
she  won't.  I  slipped  out  of  it  for  Thanksgiving,  and 
she's  only  got  this  one  turkey  left." 

"You  can  go  and  eat  it  in  peace,  for  I  wouldn't 
have  you  at  the  meeting  if  you  begged  me  on  your 
knees.  There  are  depths  of  depravity  and  duplicity 
in  me  that  you  have  never  guessed.  You've  never  seen 
me  being  gracious." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          22Q 

"You  weren't  so  bad  to-day." 

"Not  a  circumstance.  A  mere  nothing  to  what  I 
shall  accomplish  on  Tuesday." 

They  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while,  and  then  Dr. 
Mary  said  suddenly: 

"Some  day  I  am  going  to  write  an  article  on  the 
Biological  Why  of  Women's  Faith  in  Each  Other." 

"Outline  it  now.  Maybe  I  can  incorporate  some  of 
it  in  the  talk." 

"I  can't.  I  don't  know  myself.  It's  not  written  yet. 
But  it  is  funny,  isn't  it,  how  women  in  the  aggregate 
do  annoy  one,  and  yet  at  bottom  each  one  of  the 
mass  has  the  same  qualities  of  the  individual  woman, 
who  keeps  our  faith  burning.  I  once  went  to  a  con 
ference  of  women  physicians,  and  it  almost  drove  me 
wild.  There's  something  about  my  own  sex  en  masse 
that  depresses  me  dreadfully.  And  yet,  each  one  of 
those  doctors  was  an  able  woman,  and  I  would  have 
enjoyed  an  hour  with  her  more  than  with  any  man  I 
had  ever  met." 

"I  know.  I  believe  in  my  congress  idea,  but  some 
times  I  wish  I  could  put  it  over  without  ever  having 
to  go  near  anybody.  Trade  Unions  and  Consumers' 
Leagues  and  things  like  that  aren't  so  bad,  but  these 
clubs! — And  yet  it  is  just  where  most  of  the  energy  is 
going  to  waste.  They  always  make  me  feel  like  an 
overgrown,  gawky  boy,  and  as  if  all  my  clothes  were 
on  wrong." 

A  few  days  later,  as  Jean  stood  on  the  raised  dais 
waiting  for  the  well-bred  clapping  to  cease,  she  almost 
wished  she  had  urged  Mary  to  come.  She  could  never 
do  it  justice,  never. 

The  perfectly  appointed  clubrooms  were  crowded 
with  beautiful  gowned  women  all  looking  toward  her  in 
polite  interest.  There  was  no  enthusiasm  and  no  in 
attention.  Beneath  their  interest  in  her  as  a  public 
person,  was  a  restrained  curiosity  as  to  her  as  a 


230         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

woman.  Jean  had  long  ago  become  used  to  being  con 
sidered  a  growing  force  in  her  world,  but  she  knew 
these  women  had  gauged  to  a  cent  the  price  of  the 
furs  she  had  laid  off  in  the  anteroom  and  that  the 
simple  way  she  did  her^  hair,  in  a  rather  tight  wad 
at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  was  in  some  way  connected 
in  their  minds  with  indifference  to  masculine  interest 
or  inability  to  capture  it. 

The  applause  ceased  and  the  room  rustled  to  silence. 
They  sat  waiting,  their  white  gloved  hands  graceful 
in  their  laps,  their  chins  raised,  their  well  kept,  unvital 
bodies  in  repose.  Seen  so,  from  the  dais,  they  all 
looked  bewilderingly  alike,  as  if  many  artists  had  faith 
fully  copied  a  model,  varying  as  little  as  possible. 
Jean  wondered  what  they  would  do  if  she  should  be 
gin: 

"  Incensed  prostitutes,*  I  am  here  this  after 
noon " 

She  smiled.  All  the  faces  below  smiled,  one  large 
smile  cut  up  into  pieces. 

Half  way  down  the  room,  behind  one  of  the  pieces 
of  the  smile,  Mabel  Dawson  sized  her  up. 

"Conceited  as  they're  made.  Because  we  know  how 
to  do  our  hair  she  thinks  we're  feeble-minded." 

Jean  began  to  talk  simply  and  convincingly  in  a 
way  that  held  her  hearers  but  annoyed  Mabel  Dawson 
exceedingly. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  her  husband  brought  another 
woman  into  the  house,  if  she  always  explained  things 
to  him  as  if  he  were  two  years  old."  Mabel  then  lost 
the  drift  of  Jean's  talk  altogether  while  she  tried  to 
trace  the  marks  of  suffering  on  her  face. 

Sitting  well  down  to  the  front  and  looking  lovely  in 
a  soft  lavender  creation,  Margaret  Allen's  mind  was 
busy  with  the  same  problem.  She  too  was  searching 
Jean's  face  for  lines  of  suffering  and  could  not  find 
them.  A  woman  with  Jean's  past  ought  to  look  more 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          231 

as  if  she  had  gathered  up  the  broken  threads  and  gone 
on.  But  Jean  must  be  the  kind  of  woman  who  either 
never  broke  threads,  or  if  she  did,  ripped  out  the 
ravelings  and  wove  new  ones.  There  was  nothing 
sad  about  her.  In  fact  her  superb  physique  and 
very  evident  efficiency  were  rather  hard.  She  would 
jilwajs  know  exactly  what  she  wanted  and  just  how  to 
get  it.  She  would  walk  straight  to  her  point,  in  the 
low-heeled  shoes  that  just  missed  being  square-toed  and 
commonsense. 

A  patter  of  hands  broke  in  on  Margaret's  cogita 
tions.  She  listened  for  a  few  moments.  Jean  was  really 
making  the  subject  interesting.  A  vague  envy  began 
to  crystallize  at  the  back  of  Margaret's  mind.  She 
did  not  want  to  dispose  of  garbage,  but  there  were 
many  things,  in  the  last  twelve  years,  that  she  had 
wanted  to  do  and  had  had  to  let  go  because  of  Gregory 
and  Puck.  The  chemicalization  passed  from  envy  of 
Jean  to  annoyance  with  Gregory.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  she  had  given  up  anything.  She  was  never 
sure  that  he  did  not  think  she  was  a  little  stupid.  His 
tolerance  of  The  Fortnightly  was  insulting,  and  yet 
women  like  Jean  Herrick  thought  it  was  worth  while. 

The  meeting  came  to  an  end  with  sincere  applause. 
Women  gathered  about  and  begged  for  another  talk, 
and  proved  by  their  questions  a  real  desire  to  do  things 
besides  hold  meetings.  Then  two  maids  wheeled  in  tea, 
and  gossip  bubbled  up. 

Holding  her  cup  and  the  last  crumbs  of  rich  cake, 
Jean  succeeded  in  drawing  to  one  side.  Almost  hidden 
behind  an  alabaster  statue  on  an  ebony  pedestal,  she 
was  studving  the  faces  about  her,  when  a  soft  voice 
startled  her  so  that  she  almost  dropped  the  cup  on 
the  velvet  rug. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Herrick,  I  just  couldn't  not  speak  to 
you."  Margaret  often  gave  her  sentences  small  twists 
that  ornamented  them.  Jean  smiled. 


232          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Was  the  urge  as  great  as  that,  really?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  That  was  a  wonderful  talk!  Be 
sides,  I  almost  feel  as  if  we  were  old  friends  already. 
I'm  terribly  interested  in  the  tenements." 

Jean's  smile  deepened  but  she  looked  puzzled.  She 
met  such  a  lot  of  women  like  this,  and  was  always  for 
getting  them.  Margaret  might  even  have  been  at  the 
tea  or  sent  a  check. 

Margaret  laughed.  "No,  you  haven't  met  me  some 
where  and  forgotten,  though  I  shouldn't  mind  a  bit  if 
you  had.  I  am  Mrs.  Allen,  Mrs.  Gregory  Allen." 

Jean's  fingers  closed  on  the  saucer.  From  a  long 
way  off  she  heard  the  words  dropping  between  herself 
and  the  woman  before  her: 

"I  am  very  glad." 

The  same  power  that  dropped  the  words,  lifted  her 
hand,  and  Margaret's  came  to  meet  it. 

"I  was  terribly  interested,  and  so  glad  that  Mr. 
Allen  was  connected  with  the  tenements.  It's  so  much 
more  real  than  just  ordinary  houses,  more  human  and 
broader,  you  know.  Sometimes  I  tell  him  he'll  petrify 
in  all  those  angles  and  concrete,  without  the  personal 
touch." 

Jean  grasped  her  brain  and  set  it  down  outside,  as 
she  might  have  lifted  a  screaming  child  and  put  it 
firmly  in  a  chair.  She  would  deal  with  it  later. 

"There  are  dozens  of  things  I  would  like  to  talk  over 
with  you.  Couldn't  I  presume  on  the  acquaintance  we 
haven't  really  got  yet,  and  ask  you  to  take  pot-luck 
with  us?  Now,  please  don't  say  you've  got  something 
desperately  interesting  to  interfere." 

For  years  Jean  remembered  that  moment,  and  the 
way  in  which  Margaret  Allen  receded,  became  more 
and  more  indistinct,  almost  vanished.  But  not  quite. 
Just  at  the  moment  she  was  dropping  beyond  the 
horizon  an  icy  hand  clutched  Jean's  heart  and  Mar- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          233 

garet  was  close  again,  smiling  and  waiting  for  an  an 
swer. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  really  very  busy.  Winter  is  one 
long  rush  in  this  kind  of  work." 

"I  know.  It  must  be;  that's  why  I'm  not  going  to 
try  and  force  you  to  anything  formal,  just  ourselves, 
and  if  you  have  a  meeting  afterwards  you  can  run 
away.  We  shall  understand." 

Jean  felt  as  if  she  were  in  the  grip  of  some  small, 
persistent  animal  that  would  never  let  go. 

"Any  night  you  say,  Mrs.  Her  rick.  But  I'm  just  not 
going  to  let  you  off."  Her  pretty  lips  curved  in  child 
ish  pleading.  And  Margaret  suddenly  assumed  a 
reality  of  her  own.  This  was  the  woman  whom  Gregory 
Allen  had  loved  and  married,  whose  life  was  bound  to 
his,  whose  babbling  was  always  in  his  ears. 

Jean  almost  laughed.  She  and  Mary  had  paraded 
their  bag  of  tricks,  their  broader  view-point,  their 
richer  personalities.  He  had  been  interested,  as  he 
might  have  been  interested  in  a  play  above  the  summer 
level  of  Broadway,  and  had  gone  back  to  his  home,  to 
the  stifling  life  which  evidently  did  not  stifle  him  at  all. 
Not  all  the  big  problems,  the  genuine  human  needs  that 
she  had  struggled  with  for  the  last  two  months,  had 
dulled  the  memory  of  that  dinner  when  his  need  had 
called  so  sharply  to  her,  when  she  had  wanted  to  take 
his  head  in  her  arms  and  comfort  him.  And  those 
moments  in  Rachael's  room,  when  she  had  been  caught 
up  and  almost  swept  away  by  the  biggest  force  that 
had  ever  touched  her  life.  And  he  ?  During  these  two 
months  he  had  been  quite  contentedly  listening  to  this 
senseless  chatter.  He  must  have  been,  since  he  had 
made  no  effort  to  escape  it  even  for  the  brief  visit  that 
common  decency  demanded. 

"How  about  to-morrow,  then?  Don't  you  think  you 
might  just  squeeze  us  in?" 

"If  you  will  really  understand  and  excuse  me  right 


234          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

after."  She  would  go  and  free  herself  from  this  power. 
She  would  go  and  see  Gregory  Allen  and  this  woman 
in  the  home  they  had  made  together.  Pride  and  her 
own  sense  of  humor  would  do  the  rest. 

"Indeed  we  shall.  How  about  seven  o'clock?  Or  is 
that  a  little  late?  I  can  make  it  six-thirty  if  you'd 
rather?" 

"Oh,  no.     Seven  is  quite  all  right." 

Margaret  wrote  the  address  with  a  gold  pencil  she 
took  from  her  handbag.  For  a  moment  Jean  felt 
linked  to  Margaret  by  her  inability  to  say  that  she 
already  knew  the  number. 

"I'll  give  you  the  'phone,  too,  in  case  anything 
should  happen,  but  don't  let  anything,  please." 

"No,  I  won't."  Jean  took  the  slip,  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  chairman  glided  up  and  began  scolding 
Margaret  for  monopolizing  Mrs.  Herrick.  Jean  was 
led  away,  and  for  another  half  hour  she  answered 
questions.  Then  Margaret  was  before  her  again, 
delicious  in  a  coat  with  fur  cuffs  and  a  collar  that 
framed  her  face  like  a  huge  leaf. 

"Au  revoir,  until  to-morrow  at  seven." 

Margaret  caught  the  envious  glance  of  the  chairman 
and  made  an  intimate  little  motion  of  farewell  to  Jean. 

It  was  over  at  last,  and  Jean  was  walking  along 
briskly  in  the  coming  night.  She  was  going  to  see 
Gregory  Allen  again.  She  was  going  to  sit  at  his  table, 
with  his  wife  and  child,  and  talk  of  general  things.  She 
was  going  to  grasp  this  haunting  power  that  held  her 
days  and  crush  it.  She  would  not  be  afraid  after  she 
had  seen  him  there  in  his  own  world. 

"I  suppose  she  will  tell  him  to-night — 'Oh,  Gregory, 
Mrs.  Herrick  is  dining  with  us  to-morrow.'  " 

Jean  smiled.  He  would  be  surprised.  She  could 
see  his  eyes  widen  in  that  childish  fashion  that  had 
come  to  make  her  feel 

"You  fool.     You  unspeakable  fool."     Jean's  scorn 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          233 

of  herself  before  these  vivid  pictures  of  a  man,  who 
had  never  given  her  the  slightest  right  to  think  he  had 
any  of  her  at  all,  lashed  her  pride  to  anger. 

"You're  thirty-four,  you  idiot.  Suppose  you  do  love 
him?  What  of  it?  Maybe  you  won't  after  to-morrow 
night." 

All  the  way  down  in  the  Subway  the  refrain  beat 
in  Jean's  ears: 

"Maybe  you — won't.  May-be  you — won't.  Mebbe 
youwon't.  Mebbeyouwon't." 

She  let  herself  into  Dr.  Mary's  empty  apartment, 
and  then  telephoned  Martha  that  she  had  to  work  late. 
In  the  morning  it  would  be  different,  but  to-night  she 
could  not  describe  the  meeting,  and  Martha  was  always 
interested  in  every  detail. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

IT  was  a  few   minutes  before   seven  when  the  maid 
showed  Jean  into  the  Allen  living-room.     A  little 
girl   rose   from   a  hassock   and  stood   looking  at   her 
quietly.    Then  she  came  forward  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"My  mamma's  not  home  yet,  but  I'm  Puck." 

Jean  took  the  mite  of  a  hand  in  hers.  "And  I  am 
Mrs.  Herrick." 

"I  know.  Fm  going  to  entertain  you.  Won't  you 
sit  down?"  The  brown  of  Gregory's  eyes  was  softened 
to  hazel  in  Puck's,  but  the  spirit  in  them  was  his. 
"That's  the  nicest  chair.  My  daddy  likes  it  best." 
The  tone  was  a  childish  treble  of  Margaret's,  but  the 
decision  with  which  she  pointed  out  that  particular 
chair  was  the  same  with  which  Gregory  in  the  end  had 
always  won  over  hers  or  Mary's  suggestions.  A  lump 
rose  in  Jean's  throat. 

"Stop  it,"  she  whispered  fiercely  to  herself.  "You're 
in  it  now.  You've  got  to  see  it  through. " 

Puck  had  returned  to  the  hassock,  where  she  sat 
with  her  brows  drawn,  looking  for  a  foothold  in  this, 
her  first  social  struggle.  As  one  grown  woman  to  an 
other  Jean  smiled  and  said: 

"I  think  it's  going  to  snow,  don't  you?" 

Puck's  face  cleared  and  she  smiled  back  at  Jean, 
exactly  as  Gregory  smiled,  the  light  touching  her  eyes 
and  then  settling  in  her  lips. 

"I  shouldn't  be  s'prised.  I  told  Lady  Jane  that  this 
morning."  There  was  a  pause,  as  if  she  were  weighing 
a  sudden  decision.  "Would  you  like  to  see  Lady  Jane? 
She's  just  back  from  the  hospital." 

236 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          237 

"Indeed  I  should,  if  you're  sure  it  won't  hurt  her.'* 

"I  don't  believe  it  will,  not  for  a  few  moments.  I 
haven't  put  her  to  bed  yet." 

Safe  with  Lady  Jane  in  her  arms,  the  manner  of 
hostess  dropped  away.  Puck  came  close  to  Jean's 
chair,  and  turning  up  the  filmy  clothes  in  which  Lady 
Jane  was  arrayed,  pointed  to  a  leg  glaringly  new  and 
unscratched. 

"It  was  a  bad  accident  and  she  broke  it,  but  my 
daddy  said  it  might  have  killed  her.  She  was  lucky, 
wasn't  she?  My  daddy  took  her  to  the  hospital  and 
they — they — imput — " 

"Amputated?" 

"Yes.  They — ampt — they  did  that  to  the  old  leg 
and  gave  her  a  new  one.  But  I  don't  let  anybody 
touch  her,  except  me  and  daddy.  He  loves  Lady  Jane 
too." 

"I'm  sure  he  does."  Jean  smoothed  Lady  Jane's 
lacy  skirts  with  trembling  fingers. 

"Do  you  like  her?"  Puck  asked  it  abruptly  after  a 
brief  pause  in  which  Jean  fought  to  hold  fast  her  be 
lief  that  she  had  come  to  kill  her  own  fear  once  and 
for  all. 

"I  think  she  is  one  of  the  nicest  persons  I  have  ever 
met." 

Puck  dropped  the  subject  and  climbed  to  the  arm  of 
Jean's  chair.  "Tell  us  a  story,"  she  demanded,  "we 
love  stories." 

Jean  put  her  arm  about  the  slight  body  and  her 
own  throbbed  at  the  contact. 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?" 

"Well,  I  like  Cinderella  a  whole  lot  and  so  does  Lady 
Jane."  She  stopped,  looked  straight  into  Jean's  eyes 
and  added:  "Mamma  doesn't  like  me  to  have  too  many 
fairy  stories,  but  my  daddy  tells  me  one  when  I've  been 
good  enough.  Am  I  good  enough  now  for  Cinderella?" 

"I'm  sure  you're  quite  good  enough  for  Cinderella," 


238          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  Jean  plunged  into  the  story  before  she  yielded  to 
the  impulse  to  kiss  Puck. 

With  additions  of  her  own,  highly  pleasing  to  Puck, 
Jean  wound  the  fate  of  Cinderella  to  its  climax.  The 
coach  was  ready  and  the  Prince  about  to  start  on  his 
quest,  when  the  door  opened  and  Margaret  Allen 
hurried  in. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Herrick,  what  must  you  think  of  me! 
Those  impossible  cross-town  cars  and  there  wasn't  a 
taxi  in  sight.  Did  Puck  give  you  my  message?" 

"Indeed    she   did,    and    she's   been    entertaining   me 

beautifully.      We've  been "     In  the  nick   of  time 

Jean  remembered — "having  a  lovely  time." 

Puck  looked  gratefully  at  Jean  and  slid  from  the 
chair. 

"Now,  Puck." 

"Please,  mamma,  just  till  daddy  comes.  He'll  be 
here  awful  soon  now." 

"Now,  dear,  don't  tease."  Margaret  shook  her  head 
with  gentle  firmness. 

"But,  mother,  maybe  he'll  let  me  stay  to-night. 
He " 

"Puck,  say  good-night  to  Mrs.  Herrick  while  I  go 
and  hurry  Annie."  She  smiled  at  Jean.  "You  see,  it 
really  is  pot-luck,  including  delayed  dinner  and  family 
discipline." 

Puck  came  and  laid  her  hand  in  Jean's. 

"It  wasn't  a  lie,  not  a  really  lie,  was  it?  Because 
we  did  have  a  lovely  time." 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  was  a  lie." 

"Next  time  you  come,  I'm  going  to  ask  my  daddy 
first " 

But  a  key  turned  in  the  lock  and  Puck  fled. 

"Daddy!" 

"Well,  Pucklets!" 

Jean  knew  that  the  man  bent  and  lifted  the  child 
to  his  shoulder. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          239 

"And  how  goes  it?  Lady  Jane  had  any  fever  to 
day?" 

Jean  went  quickly  to  the  window.  With  the  cold 
ness  of  the  glass  against  her  forehead,  she  tried  to 
think.  The  murmur  of  Margaret's  voice  directing 
Annie  came  from  the  kitchen.  In  the  hall  Gregory 
was  hanging  up  his  overcoat.  Puck's  high  treble  fluted 
in  a  string  of  words  that  conveyed  nothing.  Gregory 
had  come  home,  back  to  this  world  of  which  he  was 
the  central  pivot.  The  very  air  was  changed,  charged 
with  a  vigor  that  it  had  lacked.  And  she,  an  outsider, 
was  closed  in  there  with  them.  Jean  gripped  the  win 
dow-shelf  and  waited. 

"Daddy,  Mrs.  Herrick  likes  Lady  Jane  too." 

They  were  almost  at  the  door.  Without  turning, 
Jean  felt  the  man  stop.  Margaret  had  not  told  him. 

Jean  turned  and  stood  with  her  hands  hanging 
quietly  at  her  sides.  Puck  clinging  to  him,  Gregory 
crossed  the  threshold.  It  was  Jean  who  spoke  first. 

"Indeed  I  do  like  Lady  Jane." 

Jean  felt  that  she  was  throwing  the  words  to  him, 
aiming  blindly  and  hoping  that  he  would  catch  them. 
For  the  smile  with  which  he  had  listened  to  Lady  Jane's 
symptoms  was  still  in  his  eyes,  as  if  consciousness  had 
been  killed  at  that  moment. 

"Of  course.     Doesn't  everybody  love  Lady  Jane?" 

He  had  caught  the  words.  Across  the  child  they 
looked  at  each  other. 

"This  is  a  surprise." 

Jean  felt  as  if  they  were  playing  a  game.  A  thou 
sand  things  that  she  had  wanted  to  tell  him  during 
these  weeks  rushed  to  her  mind.  She  felt  childish  and 

excited,  like  Puck.  "Yes "  She  had  intended  to 

say  something  about  meeting  Mrs.  Allen  yesterday,  to 
enlighten  Gregory  as  much  as  she  could,  but  she 
found  herself  facing  the  words  "Mrs.  Allen"  and  she 
could  not  go  on. 


240          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Then  Margaret  entered,  trying  to  sum  up  in  a  rapid 
glance  the  measure  of  her  success  in  proving  to  Greg 
ory  that  important  people  like  Jean  Herrick  thought 
her  worth  while  cultivating.  But  there  was  no  sur 
prise  in  Gregory,  and  Jean  felt  that  Margaret  was 
annoyed.  She  had  set  her  little  stage  and  the  actor 
wouldn't  play. 

"Come,  Puck,  have  you  said  good-night  to  Mrs. 
Herrick?" 

Puck  cast  one  long,  beseeching  look  at  her  father, 
but  for  once  he  failed  her.    Without  seeing  her  plead 
ing,  he  bent  and  kissed  her  good-night, 
"Good-night,  Puck;   sleep  tight." 
Puck's   shoulders   straightened.      There  was   forced 
politeness  but  no  friendliness  now  in  her  eyes  as  she 
held  out  her  hand  to  Jean. 
"Good-night,   Mrs.   Herrick." 

Jean  wanted  to  drop  on  her  knees,  put  her  arms 
about  Puck  and  explain  straight  into  those  stern,  hurt 
eyes. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  and  without  another  word, 
Puck  marched  out  of  the  room. 

"Come,  Mrs.  Herrick,  I'm  afraid  everything  is 
spoiled  as  it  is."  Margaret  led  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room  and  they  sat  down  in  a  silence  that  Jean  felt 
was  never  going  to  be  broken.  When  Margaret  spoke, 
Jean  turned  to  her  gladly. 

"I've  been  thinking  all  day  about  what  you  told 
us  yesterday  and  I'm  getting  more  excited  every  mo 
ment.  Why,  it's  perfectly  tremendous,  that  idea  of 
a  woman's  congress,  something  bigger  than  women 
have  ever  done  before.  Mrs.  Herrick  is  planning  a 
general  woman's  congress,  Gregory,  to  deal  with 
women's  problems  all  over  the  country." 

Gregory  Allen  did  not  answer.  Margaret  bit  her 
lips  with  vexation  and  then  hurried  along  to  cover  the 
breach  of  his  rudeness. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          241 

"Won't  you  tell  me  some  more  about  it,  Mrs.  Her- 
rick?  You  presented  so  many  new  points,  even  in 
the  Garbage  Disposal,  that  I  know  I  didn't  get  half 
of  them  clear.  As  I  understand  it,  all  the  clubs  with 
civic  divisions  already  formed,  will  come  together  in 
a  central  body  right  away?  Don't  you  think  that's  a 
great  idea,  Gregory?" 

Under  pretext  of  passing  him  the  crackers,  Mar 
garet  made  a  last  effort  to  draw  him  in.  Jean's 
anger  vanished  in  pity  for  her.  She  was  like  a  bright 
moth  buzzing  helplessly  against  a  silent,  bronze  Bud 
dha. 

What  thousands  of  meals  they  must  have  had  like 
this,  Margaret's  enthusiasm  pricking  at  his  silence! 

Jean  had  not  wanted  to  talk  about  the  Congress  at 
all,  but  now  she  plunged  in,  before  Gregory  could  an 
swer. 

Beyond  their  voices  Gregory  sat,  catching  a  phrase 
now  and  then  that  interrupted  the  trend  of  his  thought 
but  did  not  turn  it.  Nothing  was  real  but  the  fact 
that  Jean  had  come  back  into  his  days.  Through  no 
action  of  his  own,  she  was  sitting  at  his  table.  He  had 
closed  a  door  of  his  life  and  Fate  had  opened  it. 

"Don't  put  a  pergola  on  the  Auditorium." 

In  the  past  weeks  Gregory  had  heard  Jean's  last 
words  until  sometimes  it  had  seemed  to  him  that  he 
would  go  mad.  They  were  such  ridiculous  words  to 
have  marked  the  end. 

And  here  she  was.  So  close  that  almost  without 
a  motion  he  could  reach  and  touch  her  hand — the  firm, 
large  hand  that  he  could  see  without  looking  at  it — 
crumbling  the  bread  beside  her  plate.  With  his  eyes 
on  his  own  plate,  he  could  see  the  outline  of  her  throat, 
the  even  throb  of  the  strong  pulse  that  beat  at  the 
base.  Night  after  night,  during  the  last  ten  weeks, 
he  had  shut  it  away,  forced  it  out  of  his  vision  and  gone 


242          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

on  reading,  while  across  the  table  Margaret  sat  em 
broidering  clothes  for  Puck. 

He  had  closed  and  locked  a  door.  Margaret  had 
opened  it.  His  brain  beat  in  a  chaos  of  anger  and 
gratitude  and  pity  for  Margaret. 

"Gregory,  just  listen  to  this."  They  had  reached 
the  dessert  without  Gregory's  noticing  that  the  maid 
had  brought  things  or  taken  them  away,  and  without 
his  uttering  a  word.  Margaret's  patience  had  reached 
its  limit,  and  she  turned  to  him  now  with  the  same 
controlled  impatience  with  which  she  disciplined  Puck. 

"Mrs.  Herrick  believes  that  there  are  spiritual 
forces,  just  as  real  as  physical  ones,  like  gravity  and 
cohesion  and  all  that,  that  are  going  to  waste  because 
nobody  has  tried  to  channel  them.  Isn't  that  right, 
Mrs.  Herrick?"' 

Gregory  was  looking  up  now.  Like  a  humming-bird 
Margaret  flitted  aside  to  let  the  stronger  force  sweep 
him  into  the  current. 

"Yes.  I  believe  that  what  we  call  personality  is 
almost  a  concrete  thing.  You  can  feel  it,  just  as  you 
can  feel  any  force.  It  seems  to  me  there  is  a  lot  of 
this  vital  undercurrent  in  women." 

And  Gregory  felt  again  the  hall,  packed  with  Jewish 
workers,  and  Rachael  leaning  from  the  edge  of  the 
platform.  .  .  .  "How  is  Rachael?" 

Jean  wondered  whether  the  words  she  was  trying 
to  grasp  would  ever  come  within  reach.  Margaret 
looked  with  a  puzzled  frown  from  one  to  the  other. 
But  she  didn't  care  much  what  he  said  as  long  as  he 
said  something. 

"Rachael  won  the  strike.  But  it  took  all  the  strength 
she  had." 

"You  see,  Gregory,  I  am  not  the  only  woman  who 
believes  in  women."  Jean  was  grateful  to  Margaret 
for  fluttering  back. 

"Evidently  not." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  243 

"When  we  really  get  started  we  might  have  a  special 
meeting  to  give  the  men  a  chance  to  apologize.  How 
would  that  do?" 

Margaret  covered  her  triumph  with  flippancy,  as  if 
only  by  condescending  to  Gregory's  interest  could  she 
keep  him  from  lapsing  again.  Jean  visioned  an  eve 
ning  at  this  level  and  knew  she  could  not  face  it.  She 
glanced  at  her  wrist-watch  and  then  at  Margaret. 

"Do  you  really  have  to?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do." 

Jean  pushed  back  her  chair. 

"I  know  you  warned  me.  But  won't  you  come  soon 
again?  I  know  how  busy  you  are  and  so  I'm  not 
going  to  set  a  day.  Just  ring  up  any  time,  if  you 
don't  mind  the  informality.  Perhaps,  between  us,  we 
can  convert  him." 

Jean  moved  into  the  living-room  to  get  her  things 
and  Margaret  followed. 

Gregory  stood  where  he  was.  In  a  few  moments 
Jean  would  be  gone.  The  maid  would  clear  the  things. 
He  and  Margaret  would  be  sitting  in  their  usual  places 
in  the  living-room.  He  would  pretend  to  read  to  still 
Margaret's  comments  on  Jean.  Jean's  rumpled  nap 
kin  lay  beside  her  plate.  It  seemed  to  belong  inti 
mately  to  her,  although  it  had  a  large  embroidered 
"A"  in  the  corner.  It  was  a  possession  of  Jean's  and 
she  had  gone  a  long  way  away  and  left  it  behind.  She 
would  never  come  back.  Gregory  was  positive  of  that. 
Why  had  Jean  come?  He  did  not  know.  But  she 
would  never  come  back. 

Gregory  went  into  the  hall  and  took  his  hat  and 
overcoat  from  the  cupboard.  Margaret's  voice  was 
insisting  that  Jean  "ring  up  any  time."  Jean  was 
not  answering. 

Gregory  came  back  into  the  dining-room  with  his 
overcoat  on.  Margaret's  surprise  escaped  in  a  swift 
glance,  and  then  a  smile  of  triumph  lit  her  eyes.  She 


244          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

had  won  after  all.  She  had  forced  Gregory  from  his 
usual  indifference  to  their  guests  into  at  least  a  sem 
blance  of  what  Margaret  called  "common  social  de 
cency."  It  was  true  that  he  did  not  look  over-gracious 
at  the  thought  of  escorting  Jean  home,  but  it  was 
more  than  he  ever  did  for  Frances  or  Mabel. 

"Really,  there's  not  the  slightest  need.  I'm  going 

straight  down "  Jean  tried  to  remember  what  she 

had  told  Margaret  she  had  to  do,  or  whether  she  had 
told  her  anything. 

"I'm  going  down  anyhow.  I've  got  some  things  to 
do  at  the  office." 

Margaret  followed  to  the  elevator  and  they  dropped 
from  her  world  together. 

Outside  Jean  turned  to  Gregory. 

"There  is  no  need,  really." 

Her  voice  almost  begged  him  not  to  come. 

"I  have  to  go  to  the  office." 

Without  a  word  they  began  to  walk,  straight  ahead, 
although  that  was  not  the  direction  of  the  Subway 
station.  Myriads  of  stars  looked  down  from  a  black, 
cold  sky  and  the  bare  trees  along  the  pavement 
creaked  in  a  rising  wind.  A  few  people  hurried  by, 
but  the  street  was  almost  deserted.  Just  before  they 
came  to  the  end,  where  it  swerved  into  a  more  brightly 
lighted  one,  Gregory  stopped. 

"Jean,  why  did  you  come?" 

His  voice  was  harsh,  and  Jean  felt  the  rigidity  of 
his  body,  although  they  were  almost  a  foot  apart,  and 
he  did  not  touch  her  at  all.  She  tried  to  turn  her 
eyes  away.  If  she  did  not  look  at  him  she  could  lie.  But 
the  desperate  need  in  his  drew  her  back. 

"I  had  to.     I  had  to  know." 

"You— didn't   know?" 

Jean  shook  her  head. 

"But  you  know,  now?" 

"Yes.     I  know." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          245 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  which  all  the  tangle  and 
pain  of  the  last  weeks  were  swept  away.  In  the  next 
block  a  taxi  rattled  to  a  stop  before  one  of  the  huge 
gray  stone  apartments.  A  noisy  trio  got  out  and 
went  laughing  across  the  sidewalk.  That  was  another 
world,  with  noise  and  confusion  and  aimless  talk.  In 
the  world  closing  tighter  and  tighter  about  them  there 
was  no  noise,  no  confusion,  no  aimless  talk.  It  was 
still,  filled  with  a  depth  of  understanding  beyond  the 
reach  of  words. 

The  chauffeur  slammed  the  door,  mounted,  and  the 
taxi  came  swaying  and  rattling  toward  them.  Greg 
ory  signaled  and  it  lurched  to  a  stop  at  the  curb. 
With  her  hand  still  in  his,  Jean  moved  toward  it.  She 
got  in  and  Gregory  stepped  in  after  her. 

"Where  to,  sir?" 

"Gramercy  Park,"  Jean  said  quietly,  and  Gregory 
closed  the  door.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  to  weakness. 

"It  had  to  be,  Jean,  from  the  beginning." 

"I  know."    Jean  drew  closer  in  his  hold. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-NINE 

TEAN'S  work  now  took  shape  to  her  as  something 
*J  visible  and  apart.  It  was  the  system  of  wires  that 
ran  through  life,  connecting  the  days.  The  dynamo 
that  kept  it  all  vibrating  was  her  love. 

The  depths  of  its  peace  surprised  her.  She  loved, 
in  secret,  a  married  man.  She  had  met  his  wife,  eaten 
at  their  home,  held  their  child  in  her  lap.  She  had 
not  only  broken  the  standards  of  society,  which  did 
not  matter  at  all,  but  she  had  broken  what  she  had 
believed  were  her  own.  These  did  not  matter  either. 
There  was  nothing  degrading  in  slipping  away  to  meet 
Gregory,  for  nothing  could  degrade  their  love  any 
more  than  a  small  boy  could  degrade  the  sun  by  throw 
ing  mud  at  it. 

Christmas  came.  Applicants  flooded  the  office,  but 
Jean  snatched  as  many  hours  as  she  could.  When  it 
was  possible  they  had  lunch  together,  and  she  often 
worked  at  night  to  make  up  for  the  teas  they  had 
in  the  quiet  tea-room  in  the  upper  Thirties.  They 
always  went  a  bit  earlier  than  the  crowd  and  had  an 
alcove  to  themselves.  Jean  had  a  sensuous  delight  in 
the  contrast  of  leaving  the  office  behind  her,  the  wait 
ing  room  never  empty,  the  staff  of  extra  helpers,  the 
j  angling  'phone,  and  then — this  other  world  with  Greg 
ory.  The  place  had  once  been  a  brownstone  mansion, 
with  carved  staircases  and  pendulous  chandeliers  of 
crystal.  Heads  of  baby  angels  looked  down  from  the 
cornices  and  the  shadows  of  stately  men  and  women 
seemed  always  to  lurk  in  the  corners,  aloof  and  dis 
dainful,  but  curious  of  this  new  generation  that  smoked 

246 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          247 

and  talked  immoderately  on  all  subjects,  at  fragile 
tables,  painted  in  strange  colors.  Waitresses,  in  chintz 
polonaises  and  powdered  hair,  served  tea  and  muffins 
at  extravagant  prices.  The  same  girl  always  served 
them,  and  Jean  felt  as  if  the  alcove  was  theirs. 
It  was  the  nearest  they  had  to  a  home  together.  Here 
they  retailed  gossip  and  talked  over  their  work.  Greg 
ory  was  giving  every  spare  moment  of  his  time  to  the 
designs  for  the  auditorium  and  Jean  loved  to  have  him 
consult  her  even  'when  the  technical  details  were  beyond 
her  understanding.  That  he  needed  her  in  this  way 
filled  Jean  with  a  warm  glow,  a  distinct  physical  re 
action  that  softened  the  outlines  of  her  whole  body. 
Coming  from  a  happy  hour  with  Gregory,  Jean  tackled 
problems  that  had  troubled  the  office  for  weeks,  and,  as 
Berna  said,  "simply  bored  through  them!" 

Jean  rarely  thought  of  Margaret,  and,  when  she 
did,  it  was  as  of  one  of  their  acquaintances.  If  Mar 
garet  had  not  been  Gregory's  wife,  Jean  would  have 
enjoyed  telling  him  about  her.  She  could  not  feel  per 
sonal  about  Margaret.  She  did  not  even  resent  her.  In 
the  natural  world  there  were  peacocks  and  orchids  and 
slugs  and  worms ;  there  were  small,  useful  animals  and 
needful  growing  things,  and  beautiful  poisonous  fungi 
that  seemed  to  exist  for  no  definite  purpose.  They  all 
followed  their  own  law.  So  there  were  Kittens  and 
Tigers  and  Herricks  and  Marys  and  Jeans  and  Mar 
garets  and  Pats.  They  were  all  different,  and  all 
needed.  The  mistake  was  in  misunderstanding  and  con 
fusing  values.  She  had  done  this  when  she  had  married 
Herrick  and  Gregory  had  done  it  when  he  married 
Margaret. 

But  the  really  wrong  thing,  the  wicked  thing,  was 
to  be  afraid.  To  refuse  because  one  had  not  the  cour 
age  to  accept.  To  grow  too  weary  spiritually  to  reach 
out  and  grasp  the  next  rung  of  one's  development  and 
so  swing  up  and  up  to  the  height  of  one's  possibility. 


248         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

After  a  meeting  with  Gregory,  Jean  had  often  to  make 
an  effort  to  keep  from  running,  so  close  was  this  tie 
between  the  spirit  and  the  flesh. 

On  Sundays,  when  Gregory  could  get  away  without 
too  greatly  disturbing  the  plan  of  life  in  which  he 
had  so  long  acquiesced,  or  too  greatly  disappointing 
Puck,  they  went  for  long  walks  in  the  country.  Jean 
lied  to  Mary  and  to  her  mother  about  these  walks. 
She  wanted  every  scrap,  even  the  knowledge  of  their 
existence,  to  herself.  Sometimes,  at  the  last  moment  a 
complication  arose,  impossible  to  overcome,  and  the 
walk  was  postponed.  Neither  Jean  nor  Gregory  ever 
asked  why  or  referred  to  it  again.  They  accepted, 
without  the  indignity  of  complaint,  the  conditions  of 
their  loving. 

Gregory  was  happy,  too.  And,  although,  unlike 
Jean,  he  never  realized  in  his  muscles  the  spiritual  val 
ues  of  their  love,  he  did  feel  that  life  was  a  bigger  and 
deeper  thing  than  he  had  ever  dreamed.  Margaret's 
well-meaning  scratching  at  his  interests  no  longer  an 
noyed  him.  He  felt  that  she  had  been  cheated,  made  in 
one  of  the  small  molds,  when  there  were  so  many  larger 
ones  in  which  she  might  have  been  shaped. 

The  day  before  New  Year,  Jean  took  the  afternoon 
off  and  they  went  for  a  long  tramp  through  the  snow 
in  Jersey.  It  was  a  glorious  day  with  blue  sky  and 
sunshine,  faintly  warm  on  the  hill  crests.  They  walked 
until  dusk  and  then  had  tea  before  a  log  fire  in  a  little 
French  roadhouse,  where  the  fat  wife  of  the  proprietor 
insisted  on  Jean's  taking  off  her  shoes  and  putting  on  a 
pair  of  Gustave's  red  carpet  slippers  while  the  shoes 
dried. 

Jean  laughed.  "I  shall  never  understand  why  such 
a  healthy-looking,  able-to-manage-herself  being  gets 
so  much  mothering.  Every  night  in  winter  I  have  to 
restrain  mummy  by  force  from  feeling  if  my  stockings 
are  damp.  I  wish  you  knew  mummy,  Gregory.  She's 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          249 

so  impossible  to  describe,  but  she  makes  such  ripping 
anecdotes." 

"I  do  feel  rather  cheated,  but  I  have  a  pretty  clear 
conception.  I  think  she's  like  this." 

He  drew  a  small  shaft,  firm  at  the  base,  tapering  to 
a  point. 

"Mummy  to  the  life,"  Jean  chuckled.  "Now  do 
Mary." 

"That's  harder."  The  pencil  poised  over  the  paper 
some  time  before  he  made  a  line. 

"There.  That's  as  near  as  I  can  get,  but  I'm  not 
sure  that  the  proportions  are  right." 

It  looked  like  two  triangles,  one  imposed  on  the 
other,  apex  to  apex. 

"What's  that  in  geometry?  It's  not  like  anything 
in  life.  Poor  Mary,  why  does  she  come  to  a  point 
in  the  middle  and  then  flare  again?" 

"Because  that's  what  she  does.  I  always  had  the 
feeling  with  her,  more  than  with  any  one  I  ever  met, 
that  she  was  spiritually  constructed  in  sections.  She 
has  the  ground  work  of  one  kind  of  person,  but  she 
isn't  that  kind.  She  started  out  planted  firm  on  the 
earth,  then  she  spired  to  a  point,  refused  to  end  there, 
wanted  to  get  back  to  earth  again,  couldn't,  and  so  her 
soul  built  another  triangle,  on  top  of  the  first.  She  ends 
in  a  firm  base  again,  but  it's  in  the  air.  Now  what  do 
you  suppose  she  would  say  if  you  told  her — about  us? 
She  might  say  almost  anything." 

"Why,  I  know  exactly  what  she'd  say." 

"What,  Infallible  One?" 

"She'd  say  that  it  was  none  of  her  business." 

Gregory  laughed.  "I  suppose  she  would.  After  all, 
she  is  almost  always  right." 

It  was  dark  before  they  started  back.  With  the 
ending  of  their  days  they  always  grew  a  little  silent. 
Small,  clear  stars  pricked  the  black  and  the  moon 
peered  timidly  over  the  ridge  top.  They  walked 


250         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

through  the  dry  snow  hand  in  hand.  Twice  Gregory 
stopped,  drew  Jean  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  It 
made  them  both  giddy  to  kiss  like  that,  alone  in  the 
open,  under  the  stars.  Jean's  lips  clung  to  his,  and 
when  his  hold  loosened,  she  drew  him  to  her  again. 

The  deck  of  the  ferryboat  was  deserted  and  they 
stood  together  in  the  stern,  watching  the  ice  cakes 
swirl  in  the  black  water.  A  cold  wind  swept  down 
the  river  and  whipped  their  faces.  When  the  boat 
docked,  Gregory  took  a  quick  kiss. 

"It  was  a  great  walk." 

Jean  nodded. 

"Happy  New  Year,"  she  whispered,  and  led  the 
way  down  the  gangplank. 

On  New  Year's  morning  Jean  astonished  Martha  by 
going  to  early  church  with  her.  Martha  asked  for 
no  reason,  but  her  heart  sang  its  thanksgiving  as  they 
trotted  along  through  the  clean  crispness  of  the  New 
Day.  It  was  only  six  o'clock,  but  the  church  was  full. 
The  high  altar,  white  in  its  frostwork  of  sheerest  lace, 
blazed  with  candles.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  odor 
of  thick  white  flowers  and  incense  that  never  quite 
died  out.  Through  it,  like  a  refreshing  draft,  came 
the  woodsy  smeU  of  greens  and  berries. 

Abject  with  gratitude  and  humility,  Martha  slipped 
into  the  last  pew  and  Jean  knelt  beside  her.  It  was 
like  dropping  back  through  the  years  into  her  child 
hood.  From  force  of  association,  Jean  leaned  her 
head  on  the  pews  in  front  and  closed  her  eyes.  She 
did  not  pray  but  she  felt  strangely  near  a  God. 

After  a  moment  she  stole  a  look  at  Martha,  just  as 
she  used  to  do  when  she  was  little  and  wanted  per 
mission  to  get  up  and  sit  in  the  seat.  It  was  queer 
how  a  motion  could  start  an  old  train  of  thought.  As 
strongly  as  if  she  were  feeling  it  now,  she  remembered 
the  anger  that  had  always  stirred  her  when  her  mother 
Went  on  praying,  without  seeing  the  look.  She  had 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          251 

always  hated  the  way  Martha  knelt,  almost  crouched, 
in  the  last  pew.  It  had  always  made  her  want  to 
walk  straight  on,  up  to  the  very  altar  itself,  and  face 
God  standing,  with  her  eyes  open.  If  people  loved 
God,  as  they  said  they  did,  why  were  they  so  afraid 
of  him?  If  this  was  His  house,  why  did  they  sneak 
around  in  it  like  burglars?  How  furious  it  had  made 
her!  And  now,  nothing  had  changed:  Martha  still 
crept  into  the  last  pew  and  crouched  before  her  God, 
and  it  did  not  make  Jean  angry  at  all.  Instead,  it  made 
a  lump  come  into  her  throat,  and  down  to  the  depths 
of  her  she  was  glad  that  Martha  had  her  God. 

She  had  Gregory. 

A  young  priest  entered  and  the  service  began.  Jean 
rose  and  knelt  and  made  the  proper  responses.  Words 
that  she  could  not  have  recalled  in  any  other  setting, 
came  spontaneously  to  her  lips.  While  row  after  row 
of  communicants  went  to  the  rail,  she  knelt,  her  head 
bowed.  The  monotonous  murmur: 

"Take  and  eat  this — the  body  and  blood  of  Christ 
which  was  given  for  thee,  preserve  thy  body  and  soul 
to  everlasting  life." 

Over  and  over,  row  after  row,  hung  a  background 
for  her  thoughts. 

"Take,   eat — preserve   thy   body — everlasting  life." 

Against  it,  she  walked  in  the  dark  with  Gregory 
and  felt  his  lips  seeking  hers. 

" — and  may  the  blessing  of  God  Almighty  and  His 
Son  Jesus  Christ  remain  with  you  always.  Amen." 

The  young  priest,  followed  by  his  assistant,  moved 
across  the  chancel.  Every  head  bowed  before  his 
going.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  as  if  the  earth 
had  stilled,  while  God  Himself  went  back  to  His  own; 
then  a  rustle  and  people  rose. 

Martha  and  Jean  were  the  first  out.  Jean  slipped 
her  arm  into  her  mother's. 


252          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Mummy,  I'm  terribly  disappointed,  but  that  be 
lated  Christmas  present  isn't  done  yet.  You  can't 
have  it  before  Tuesday." 

Martha   pressed   Jean's   arm. 

"I've  had  my  present,  Jeany,  and  it's  made  me 
wonderfully  happy." 

Jean  smiled  down  at  her.  They  walked  along  quickly, 
for  a  few  blocks,  and  then  Martha  said: 

"Which  do  you  think  Mary  would  like  better,  Jean, 
chestnut  dressing  for  the  turkey,  or  just  plain?" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 

IN  March,  before  the  actual  building  of  the  tene 
ments  began,  Jean  and  Gregory  went  away  for  a 
week-end.  They  had  decided  on  the  spur  of  the  mo 
ment  and  taken  the  train  like  two  truant  children. 
Their  plan  was  to  get  off  wherever  it  looked  attractive 
and  stop  at  the  first  farmhouse  that  would  take  them 
in. 

The  train  was  a  popular  express  and  crowded,  so 
they  had  to  stand  until  the  first  stop  was  reached. 
Then  Jean  got  a  seat  and  Gregory  went  into  the 
smoker.  With  her  elbow  on  the  windowsill  and  her 
chin  in  her  hand,  Jean  gazed  into  the  fleeing  fields  and 
was  glad  that  Gregory  was  not  there.  It  was  almost 
too  much,  the  deep  hollows  still  snow-filled,  the  bare 
earth  of  the  upper  stretches,  the  faint  green  of  swell 
ing  buds,  and  the  two  days  before  them.  No  duties 
to  intervene,  no  appointments  to  keep.  It  was  their 
first  interlude  of  almost  perfect  freedom.  But  there 
were  going  to  be  many  more  in  the  summer  ahead. 

The  train  had  made  two  stops.  There  were  plenty 
of  seats  now.  Jean  looked  up  and  saw  Gregory  com 
ing  towards  her.  For  a  moment  she  had  a  mixed  feeling 
of  complete  possession  and  at  the  same  time  of  per 
sonal  isolation.  He  was  hers,  so  completely,  so  in 
evitably  hers,  and  yet  this  was  the  first  time  they  had 
gone  away  together,  stolen  a  little  piece  of  life  for 
their  own.  It  was  a  diminutive  honeymoon,  but  she 
couldn't  say  that  to  him.  As  she  moved  over  and  made 
room  for  him  beside  her,  she  realized  how  little  they 
knew  of  each  other's  daily  habits,  their  methods  of 

253 


254          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

doing  personal  things,  and  yet  the  way  Gregory 
dropped  into  the  place  she  made  for  him,  gave  her 
the  feeling  of  having  been  married  to  him  for  a  long 
time.  She  wondered  what  he  was  thinking. 

But  evidently  Gregory  was  concerned  with  no  such 
complicated  analysis,  for  he  turned  to  her  presently: 

"No  place  has  hit  the  mark  yet?" 

"I  don't  believe  I've  been  looking.  I've  just  been 
soaking." 

"Let's  toss.     Heads,  the  next;  tails,  the  one  after." 

It  was  heads.  Jean  settled  in  her  seat.  Gregory 
looked  at  her  and  smiled.  The  smile  deepened.  He 
could  not  help  but  think  of  Margaret.  Whichever 
way  it  had  fallen,  she  would  have  suggested  throwing 
again.  The  second  station  "might  be  so  much  bet 
ter." 

"You're  a  brick." 

"Perfectly  true,  but  why  at  this  particular  mo^ 
ment?" 

"The  explanation's  much  too  subtle  for  your  fem 
inine  mind." 

"Because  I  didn't  suggest  tossing  again?" 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!     How  did  you  guess  that?" 

"You're  a  brick,"  Jean  grinned.  "As  dense,  every 
bit." 

They  got  off  at  the  next  station,  to  the  astonish 
ment  of  the  solitary  native  waiting  for  the  down  train, 
and  struck  across  the  fields.  When  they  came  to  a 
forked  road  they  stopped. 

"We'll  take  turns  at  these  decisions.     You  first." 

"North." 

They  walked  a  mile  between  rickety  fences  that 
seemed  to  go  on  forever.  Gregory  looked  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  and  Jean  laughed. 

"Did  you  do  it  on  purpose?" 

"If  there  isn't  a  break  before  that  big  maple  down 
there,  we'll  call  that  a  turn." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          255 

They  reached  the  maple. 

"Left,"  shouted  Gregory,  without  stopping  to  rec- 
onnoiter. 

They  crossed  a  field,  boggy  with  snow-filled  ruts, 
and  climbed  a  low  rise.  Directly  beneath  lay  an  old 
farmhouse  with  a  sagging  brown  roof  and  red  window 
casings,  dulled  by  generations  of  sun  and  storm.  A 
woman  in  a  blue  apron  moved  across  the  brown,  bare 
earth  behind  the  house  to  a  white  chicken  run.  Jean 
thought  of  the  Portuguese  ranch  where  she  and  Her- 
rick  had  gone  on  their  honeymoon,  with  the  silent 
woman  and  the  cows  wandering  over  the  hills. 

"It  wasn't  me,  that's  all;  it  just  wasn't  me." 

A  very  old  dog  rose  from  the  sunshine,  sniffed  duti 
fully  as  they  came  up  on  the  stoop,  and  lay  down 
again.  Gregory  knocked  on  the  screen  door,  and  a 
girl  with  a  baby  in  her  arms  opened  it.  She  listened 
without  interest  while  Gregory  explained,  and  went  off 
without  a  word.  In  a  moment  they  heard  her  shrill: 

"Ma,  oh  mar 

The  woman  who  had  been  feeding  the  chickens  ap 
peared,  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron.  She  had  a 
lumpy,  overworked  body,  but  her  face  had  in  it  the 
patience  of  the  earth,  and  there  was  something  of 
spring  in  the  pale  blue  eyes. 

"Well,  I  guess  we  kin  fix  you  up,  seein'  it's  only  for 
a  couple  of  days.  We  couldn't  take  permanents  yet, 
the  spring  cleanin'  ain't  done." 

"There's  the  little  room  up  back,  ma?" 

"How  about  the  one  over  Uncle's?  You  could  fix 
that  up — it  don't  want  much  more  than  airin'." 

Jean  and  Gregory  waited  while  the  two  women  set 
tled  the  matter.  The  decision  was  in  favor  of  the  big 
one  over  Uncle  John's. 

"Mattie'll  show  you."  The  older  woman  took  the 
baby  and  the  girl  led  them  up  a  narrow  white  stair- 


256         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

case,  uncarpeted  and  spotless,  that  zigzagged  to  the 
floor  above. 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  she  opened  a  low  door,  painted 
white  and  fastened  with  a  hand-made  latch.  They 
entered  a  huge  room,  whitewashed,  with  white  wains 
coting,  white  matting  and  a  great  white  bed,  the  most 
spotless  room  Jean  had  ever  seen.  Ancient  apple  trees 
brushed  the  four  gleaming  windows  and  the  cluck  of 
chickens  came  from  the  yard.  The  smell  of  the  earth, 
warmed  slightly  in  the  spring  sun,  and  a  faint  fra 
grance  from  swelling  trees,  flooded  it. 

Jean  reached  out  and  touched  the  baby  green  of 
apple  leaves.  It  made  her  think  of  the  old  pine  and  her 
attic  room,  and  of  how  often  she  had  reached  out  to 
shake  the  fog  diamonds  from  the  needles  and  wish  that 
something  would  happen,  anything  to  break  the  mo 
notony.  The  old  pine  was  thousands  of  miles  away 
and  that  self  years  in  the  past.  Inwardly  and  out 
wardly  she  now  lived  in  another  world.  And  yet,  look 
ing  down  the  years,  Jean  could  put  her  finger  on  no 
moment  of  sudden  change.  It  must  all  have  been 
there,  from  the  beginning,  in  herself;  her  right  of  way 
through  the  world  of  action,  which  she  had  once  be 
lieved  held  no  entry  for  her ;  her  marriage  with  a  man 
who  came  to  her  from  one  woman's  arms  and  left  her 
for  another;  this  wonderful  love  that  was  so  right  in 
spite  of  the  world's  standards.  And  the  future?  It 
was  there,  just  as  the  present  had  been  in  the  past. 
Jean  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  drew  the  warm 
sweetness  into  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
felt  part  of  a  scheme,  obedient  to  a  law  that  worked 
on  without  her  will. 

The  girl  went  out  of  the  room  and  Gregory  put 
down  the  grip.  He  came  and  stood  beside  her.  She 
turned  and  laid  her  face  against  his  shoulder.  He 
stroked  her  hair  gently,  a  new  tenderness  in  his  touch. 

After  a  moment  she  raised  her  head  and  smiled. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          257 

"Let's  go   out   and  explore." 

From  the  kitchen  window  Mrs.  Morrison  watched 
them.  "Seems  like  a  nice  couple  and  powerful  fond. 
Look,  Mattie,  he's  holdin'  her  hand." 

Hand  in  hand,  Gregory  and  Jean  were  peering  into 
the  chicken  run.  The  girl  shrugged : 

"I  guess  they  ain't  been  married  long.  He  won't 
be  doin'  it  this  time  next  year." 

"Don't  talk  so  shaller,  Mat.  What  if  he  ain't? 
It  can't  be  spring  all  year." 

"No  need  fur  it  to  be  winter,  either." 

"The  sooner  you  git  over  thinkin'  them  things,  the 
better  it'll  be  fur  you,  my  girl.  You  got  one  of  the 
best  men  livin'.  There  ain't  a  better  provider  than 
Jim  in  this  county.  Kissin's  good  enough,  but  it  don't 
fill  the  wood  box  or  spread  the  table." 

The  girl  looked  sullenly  after  the  retreating  figures. 

"I'm  sick  o'  livin'  with  people  that's  good  providers. 
It's  like  havin'  nothin'  but  bread  mornin',  noon  and 
night.  I  want  some " 

"That'll  do,  Mat,  I  don't  stand  fur  no  such  talk 
as  that.  When  Jimmy  begins  runnin'  round  and  need- 
in'  shoes,  his  ma  and  pa  kissin'  ain't  goin'  to  put  'em 
on  him.  Besides  a  woman  shouldn't  want  things  like 
that.  It's  fur  men  to  think  of  them  things.  Hand  me 
out  the  bread  pan;  I'll  mix  up  some  biscuits,  seem' 
we  ain't  enough  loaves." 

The  girl  handed  it  to  her.  "I  suppose  I'd  better 
spread  a  clean  cloth." 

"Take  the  big  one  in  the  second  drawer,  and  you 
might  put  the  wax  plant  in  the  center." 

As  the  girl  worked,  she  kept  glancing  to  the  win 
dow,  but  Jean  and  Gregory  were  out  of  sight,  beyond 
a  dip  in  the  orchard. 

"It  is  nice,"  she  said  wistfully. 

Then  the  baby  whined  and  she  went  to  him.    As  soon 


258          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

as  he  saw  her  he  stopped  and  gooed.  The  girl  laughed 
and  picked  him  up. 

"You  old  false  alarm  you!"  She  burrowed  in  his 
neck  and  he  squirmed  with  delight. 

Out  in  the  orchard,  Gregory  and  Jean  wandered 
under  the  apple  trees,  great  old  things,  cumbered  with 
dead  branches. 

"They  can't  have  made  a  cent  from  this  place  for 
years,  and  it  would  pay  with  a  few  hundreds  put  into 
it.  But  this  eastern  land,  a  lot  of  it,  is  just  like  the 
families,  run  to  seed.  The  men  who  have  enough  kick 
in  them  to  do  anything  go  away.  A  place  like  this 
always  makes  me  feel  wonderfully  businesslike  and  ef 
ficient,  as  if  I  could  make  the  dead  thing  live  again." 

"It  doesn't  make  me  feel  businesslike.  It  makes  me 
feel  vague  and  poetic  and — and  unresponsible.  I  can't 
imagine  anything  more  peaceful  than  those  old,  useless, 
unfruitful  things,  all  budded  over  with  baby  green.  I 
wish  humans  could  grow  old  like  that,  keeping  the  pos 
sibility  of  spring.'* 

"That's  properly  vague  and  poetic,  but  I  don't  know 
that  it  would  be  such  fun.  Think  of  looking  seventy 
and  feeling  twenty!" 

"It  would  be  better  than  looking  seventy  and  feeling 
it.  A  wee  bit  of  spring,  every  year,  right  to  the  end, 
would  be  better  than  none.  Wouldn't  it?" 

Gregory  laughed.  "Half  a  loaf  better  than  none? 
Not  for  me.  I'd  rather  have  nothing  than  a  tantalizing 
dab  like  that." 

A  cold  finger  touched  Jean's  heart.  Were  their 
snatched  hours  more  than  a  "dab,"  a  half  loaf  to  him? 
They  were  glorious  hours,  but  after  all  they  were  only 
crumbs.  Jean  shook  off  the  feeling,  and  her  hand 
slipped  into  Gregory's. 

"Well,  when  you're  seventy  and  I'm  sixty-five,  you'll 
be  so  jealous  of  my  little  green  leaves,  you  won't  know 
what  to  do." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          259 

I?"  Gregory  held  her  close  and  rubbed  his 
cheek  softly  against  her  hair. 

"We're  never  going  to  grow  old  and  gnarled,  Jeany." 

"I'll  come  and  stick  a  little  green  leaf  on  your  dead 
est  bough." 

"Better  give  it  to  me  now."  Gregory  turned  her 
lips  to  his  and  kissed  her.  "That  was  a  nice  little 
leaf,'*  he  whispered. 

They  rambled  on  again,  turning  up  dead  leaves  for 
the  small  celandine  that  peeped  out  in  surprise  that 
spring  was  really  come.  As  they  turned  to  go  back, 
the  clang  of  a  bell,  mellowed  by  distance,  reached  them. 

"I'll  race  you."  They  started,  Jean  a  yard  ahead. 
In  a  moment  Gregory  was  in  front  of  her.  He  shook 
his  head  reprovingly. 

"Why,  Jean  Herrick,  I'm  astonished!  What  would 
Dr.  Fenninger  say?" 

"Put  me  under  observation  in  a  psychopathic  ward." 

Gregory  kissed  her  in  the  hollow  of  her  throat. 

"For  that,  he'd  commit  me  to  Matteawan." 

The  midday  dinner  was  a  heavy  affair,  but  both 
Jean  and  Gregory  won  Mrs.  Morrison's  approval  by 
their  appetites. 

"I  do  despise  to  cook  for  them  peckish  people,  that 
looks  as  if  they  was  choking  down  every  mouthful. 
We're  all  hearty  eaters  here;  even  Uncle  treats  his 
vittles  like  he  enjoyed  'em." 

The  old  man  at  the  end  of  the  table  looked  up. 
"You're  a  powerful  good  cook,  Mary.  I  ain't  never 
sat  down  to  a  meal  at  your  table  that  didn't  hit  the 
mark." 

He  was  a  very  old  man,  small  and  withered,  with  a 
wrinkled  brown  face  and  kind  blue  eyes  that  peered 
like  the  wildflowers  from  the  dead  leaves.  His  meal 
was  a  bowl  of  oatmeal,  covered  with  yellow  cream,  and 
a  special  kind  of  brown  bread  on  a  blue  willow  plate. 


260         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

His  defense  of  his  niece's  cooking  was  his  only  part 
in  the  conversation,  but  he  filled  the  room  with  the 
sense  of  his  presence.  Like  spring  warmth  from  the 
frozen  earth,  peace  radiated  from  him.  When  he  had 
finished  his  cereal  and  cream  he  left  the  room. 

Mary  Morrison  looked  after  him. 

"He's  the  best  man  that  ever  lived.  I've  ate  and 
slept  in  the  same  house  with  him  for  almost  fifty  years 
and  I  ain't  never  seen  him  cross  or  heard  him  say  an 
unkind  thing.'* 

"He  ain't  got  nothin'  to  cross  him,  ma;  not  that 
I'm  saying  he  ain't  good." 

"There's  always  things  to  cross  folks,  when  they're 
the  crossin'  kind.  I  never  seen  any  one  yet  that 
couldn't  git  crossed,  give  'em  half  a  chance.  Some 
times  you  shame  me,  Mattie,  with  that  shaller  talk." 

The  girl  began  scraping  the  plates  without  answer 
ing.  Mrs.  Morrison  went  on  to  Jean. 

"Mattie  here's  the  kind  that  no  chip  gets  by,  but 
life'll  learn  her.  I  kin  remember  when  Uncle  had  things 
to  upset  anybody  when  he  was  younger,  but  he  never 
let  'em.  He'd  just  go  off  and  read  the  Book  a  spell 
and  come  back  among  folks  smilin'.  Why,  he's  read 
the  Bible  clear  through  most  two  hundred  times,  and 
there's  a  stack  of  Christian  Heralds  out  in  the  barn 
that  reaches  to  the  second  loft.  He  don't  read  nothin' 
else  and  he  reads  'em  all  the  time." 

Mattie  carried  off  the  scraped  plates,  and  her  mother 
gathered  up  the  knives  and  forks.  With  the  touch 
of  the  dirty  dishes,  she  came  back  to  her  everyday 
manner. 

"Now  you  folks  kin  do  anything  you  like.  There's 
some  books  on  the  shelf  in  the  parlor,  if  you  want 
to  stay  in,  but  most  city  folks  want  to  be  outdoors 
every  minute.  It's  right  pretty  over  in  the  woods, 
but  the  ground's  damp  yet,  even  in  the  sun.  You'd 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          261 

better  take  a  buggy  robe;  we  got  a  lot  of  old  ones  in 
the  barn  fur  that." 

Jean  was  already  at  the  door,  when  Mrs.  Morrison 
added : 

"I  clear  forgot  to  ask  your  names ;  seem  like  I  always 
know  people  when  they  like  the  place." 

Jean  stepped  into  the  outer  hall. 

"Murray,"  Gregory  said  after  a  brief  pause. 

"Murray.  That's  easy.  We  git  some  awful  queer 
ones  in  summer,  and  I  was  never  no  good  at  names. 
Mattie  has  to  keep  'em  straight." 

She  passed  through  the  swing  door  with  the  tray 
of  forks  and  knives. 

"It's  Murray,  Mattie;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Murray," 
Jean  heard  her  say. 

Jean  went  quickly  out  into  the  sunshine.  Gregory 
waited  until  his  pipe  was  drawing  well  before  he  joined 
her. 

For  an  hour  they  kept  to  the  road  that  led  up  hill 
and  then  down  into  the  dogwoods,  just  beginning  to 
swell  with  spring.  At  last  they  spread  the  robe  where 
the  sun  splattered  through  in  golden  pools  and  a  little 
creek  gurgled  as  if  it  had  done  something  very  sly 
and  clever  in  stealing  away  from  winter.  Gregory  lay 
with  his  head  in  Jean's  lap  and  they  talked,  the  silences 
growing  longer  and  longer,  until,  looking  down  after  an 
unusually  long  one,  Jean  saw  that  he  was  fast  asleep. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Jean  had  ever  seen  Greg 
ory  asleep.  She  wanted,  with  an  almost  irresistible 
need,  to  draw  him  closer.  The  thought  of  Margaret 
Allen  stabbed  as  it  had  never  done  before.  Margaret 
had  nothing  that  was  hers,  but  she  had  so  much  less 
than  was  her  own.  And  Gregory  had  so  much  less 
than  was  his.  Between  them  Margaret  stood,  clutching 
with  each  hand  a  part  of  what  was  theirs,  giving  noth 
ing  in  return. 

Then  the  need  to  make  Gregory  happy,  to  yield  for 


262         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

his  happiness  every  scrap  of  herself,  to  give  everything 
that  was  beautiful,  to  drown  in  this  beauty  the  ugli 
ness  over  which  she  had  no  control,  and,  if  there  was 
anything  unbeautiful  in  their  own  relations,  to  make  it 
perfect,  swept  Jean.  There  should  be  nothing  but 
peace  and  content  in  her.  Her  hand  moved  lightly 
over  Gregory's  hair.  It  was  thick  and  soft,  with  a 
deep  wave  that  drew  her  hand. 

Herrick's  hair  had  been  fine  and  rather  silky.  Again 
Jean  wondered  at  the  separateness  of  her  two  selves. 
The  sun  was  going  when  Gregory  woke.  He  had 
slept  deeply  and  woke  with  a  dazed,  child  look  in  his 
eyes.  Jean  wished  for  a  moment  that  he  were  really 
a  child  so  that  she  could  pick  him  up  in  her  arms  and 
carry  him  away,  follow  the  sun,  and  never  be  separated 
any  more. 

"That  was  some  sleep!" 
"You  almost  snored." 

"Impossible.  Even  my  prosaic  soul  couldn't  snore 
in  the  spring  woods — with  a  lady." 

He  reached  both  arms  and  drew  Jean's  head  down. 
"Such  a  nice  lady!     I  love  her." 
"I  don't  believe  it.     Sleeping!     While  the  lady  has 
to  stay  awake  and  drive  away — malaria.     Look,  the 
sun  has  almost  gone,  it's  only  just  touching  the  very 
edge  of  the  farthest  strip." 

Gregory  heard  none  of  this.  He  was  watching  the 
light  in  Jean's  eyes.  They  were  so  gray  and  deep, 
so  like  quiet  pools,  touched  with  sun,  in  which  one 
could  go  down  and  down  and  never  reach  the  bottom. 
"I  don't  believe  it,"  Jean  repeated;  "I  can't  pos 
sibly,  in  view,  or  rather  sound  of,  the  evidence." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  be  here  with  me.  To  go  off 
with  a  gentleman  who  doesn't  love  you!  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed." 

"I'm  not."    Jean  laughed  and  laid  her  face  against 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          263 

his.  His  lips  touched  her  chin.  "Maybe  I  love  him 
enough  for  both,"  she  whispered. 

"No — you— couldn't — love — him  as  much — as  that, 
because  he  loves  you — just  that — much  himself."  Lit 
tle  kisses  on  her  neck  and  cheek  broke  the  words.  And 
Jean  felt  part  of  the  soft,  black  earth,  the  tang  of 
the  rotting  leaves  and  the  spring  budding. 

They  walked  back  through  the  woods,  chilly  now 
that  the  sun  was  gone.  It  was  dusk  when  they  came 
to  the  road  again.  The  lamp  was  lit  and  there  was 
a  homey  smell  of  fried  potatoes  and  fresh  cake.  Mat- 
tie  had  put  on  a  clean  dress  and  done  her  hair  low  on 
her  neck.  The  break  of  outsiders  had  penetrated  her 
consciousness  and  she  was  looking  forward  to  the 
evening.  Uncle  John  had  already  had  his  supper,  and 
was  reading  the  Bible  in  his  armchair  by  the  stove. 
There  was  no  sign  of  Mattie's  husband.  But  near 
the  end  of  supper  a  wagon  stopped. 

"Good  land,  that'll  be  Jim,  and  we've  et  most  every 
thing  clean." 

"I'll  scramble  him  some  eggs,  if  it  is.  Don't  you 
go  fussin',  ma.  He  ought  to  let  us  know." 

But  the  wagon  went  on  and  no  one  came. 

Jean  insisted  on  drying  the  dishes  and  after  the 
requisite  amount  of  objection  Mrs.  Morrison  gave  her 
a  towel.  She  often  talked  over  with  Mattie  this  strange 
eagerness  of  city  women  to  do  dishes.  Mattie  always 
concluded  that  it  was  only  because  they  never  did  them 
any  other  time.  But  Jean  really  wanted  to  do  them. 
She  liked  the  feel  of  the  low-raftered  room,  all  skewed 
out  of  plumb  with  age,  dim  in  the  corners,  where  the 
lamplight  did  not  touch.  Through  the  uncurtained 
windows  the  fields  stretched  away  under  the  cold  night 
sky.  They  framed  the  warm  comfort  within,  gave  it  a 
permanence  it  did  not  really  have.  With  the  filling 
of  the  dishpan  Mrs.  Morrison  began  a  story  of  a  fam 
ily  feud  that  had  gone  on  for  years  and  was  all  about 


264         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

a  chicken,  in  the  beginning.  From  time  to  time  she 
stopped  while  she  held  long  arguments  with  Mattie  on/ 
exact  names  and  dates.  Jean  caught  snatches  of  it 
between  her  own  thoughts. 

At  last  the  dishes  came  to  an  end,  and  Mrs.  Mor 
rison  hung  up  the  checked  apron. 

"Now,  if  you  folks  likes  music,  we  got  some  pretty 
records  and  Mat'll  be  glad  to  work  'em  fur  you." 

"You're  coming,  too?" 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  do,  until  it's  time  to  set  the  bread. 
But  I'm  an  early  bedder,  like  most  country  folks. 
Now,  Mattie,  she'd  stay  up  gassin'  all  night." 

The  girl  frowned.  "Country  folks  got  such  silly 
notions  they  fix  to  live  by.  You  got  to  go  to  bed  at 
seven  so  you  kin  git  up  at  five,  whether  there's  any 
thing  to  git  up  fur  or  not." 

"Honest,  Mat,  sometimes  you  make  me  think  of  old 
cousin  Beggs  that  hadn't  all  her  senses.  If  country 
folks  didn't  git  up  till  the  time  you  want  'em  to,  who'd 
feed  the  chickens?" 

"Seems  like  most  people  just  keep  'em  so  they  can 
git  up  to  feed  'em.  Not  more'n  a  third  of  'em  lays, 
anyhow.  What  tunes  do  you  like,  Mrs.  Murray?" 

"Won't  the  graphaphone  wake  the  baby?"  Jean 
made  a  last  attempt  to  save  herself  and  Gregory. 

"He  always  wakes  up  round  this  time  anyhow  and 
he  likes  it.  When  he's  old  enough  I'm  goin'  to  git  him 
music  lessons." 

"You  have  quite  a  little  time  to  look  around  for  a 
teacher!  How  old  is  he?" 

"Four  months.  But  it'll  take  all  that  time  to  find 
one  in  this  hole."  The  first  spark  of  mischief  lit  the 
girl's  eyes.  Mrs.  Morrison  laughed. 

"Go  along  with  you  and  put  on  'I'm  Waiting  at  the 
Gate.'  " 

She  rolled  down  her  sleeves,  lowered  the  lamp  and 
followed  them.  She  sat  on  the  step  that  raised  the 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          265 

"parlor"  from  the  living-room  and  leaned  back  against 
the  door  jamb,  as  if  the  Axminster  rug  and  plush 
rockers  with  which  the  delightful  old  room  was  dese 
crated,  was  unfamiliar  ground.  Mattie  put  on  the 
record  and  it  began  its  wailing  call  for  some  one  to 
meet  some  one  else  at  the  old  gate  and  not  to  forget. 

The  woman  in  the  door  closed  her  eyes.  Mattie  sat 
beside  the  machine,  her  cheek  in  her  hand,  staring  at 
the  carpet.  They  were  lost  in  the  sentiment  of  words 
and  music. 

"Pa  always  liked  that  terrible,"  the  woman  mur 
mured,  as  the  plaint  ended  in  a  mournful  throb. 
"Mattie  used  to  play  it  by  the  hour  fur  him." 

For  a  moment  something  fleeted  across  her  face  and 
Jean  saw  it  in  the  face  of  the  younger  woman,  too, 
hopeless  longing,  desire  without  strength  to  demand. 

Was  that  it,  the  bond  that  had  held  them,  pa  and 
ma,  and  Mattie?  Was  that  why  the  girl  had  married 
and  stayed?  Would  the  baby,  too,  generation  after 
generation,  until  the  stock  died  out? 

As  if  in  answer,  a  small  cry  came  from  the  room 
beyond. 

"You  kin  put  'em  on.     It's  easy.     I  got  to  go." 

She  went  out.  Jean  followed.  In  the  center  of  a 
fourpost  bed,  an  atom  kicked  its  flannel-swathed  legs 
and  puckered  its  face  for  a  real  howl,  if  its  first  warn 
ing  did  not  bring  immediate  attention.  But  as  Mattie 
lifted  it  the  puckers  smoothed,  the  incipient  howl  turned 
into  a  gurgle. 

"Some  day  I'm  just  goin'  to  let  you  howl  and  howl 
and  howl  until  you  get  so  hungry,  you  old  greedy  guts ! 
Don't  you  think  I've  got  anything  to  do  but  feed  you? 
Hey,  answer  me !" 

She  kissed  and  tickled  him  and  he  writhed  with  de- 

light. 

"There,  satisfied  now,  ain't  ye?"  She  held  him  close 
and  the  baby's  doubled  fists  dug  into  her  breast.  The 


266         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

only  sound  was  the  faint  hiss  of  the  baby's  sucking, 
Suddenly  the  girl  looked  up. 

"Got  any  babies?" 

Jean  shook  her  head. 

"Been  married  long?" 

Again  Jean  moved  her  head  slowly  in  negation.  Her 
eyes  never  turned  from  the  small  black  head  against 
the  girl's  white  breast. 

"It's  just  as  well  not  to  begin  right  off.  I  was  a 
fool,  but  nobody  told  me.  I'd  like  to  have  waited  a 
while  till  I'd  been  somewhere  and  seen  something  be 
sides  trees  and  chickens." 

The  baby  made  his  first  stop,  withdrew  his  milky 
lips  and  smiled  at  Jean.  She  knelt  and  laid  her  chin 
in  the  warm  crease  of  his  neck. 

"You  ought  to  have  one  if  you  like  'em  that  much." 
The  girl  nodded  backwards  to  the  room  behind.  "IL 
kind  of  looks  like  he  might  like  'em,  but  you  never  kin 
tell.  Most  men  don't  care  a  rap  after  they're  here.'0 

Jean  got  up.  The  baby  went  half-heartedly  back 
to  finish.  The  girl  began  rocking  him  and  humming 
the  refrain  of  the  couple  that  never  met  by  the  gate 
after  all.  The  baby's  eyes  closed.  Jean  tiptoed  from 
the  room. 

Gregory  lay  on  the  couch  reading.  In  the  kitchen 
Mrs.  Morrison  was  setting  the  bread.  Jean  drew  a 
glass  of  cold  water  from  the  pitcher  pump  on  the  sink, 
drank  it  slowly  and  went  upstairs  without  going  again 
into  the  parlor. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

ALTHOUGH  for  the  last  year  Dr.  Pedloe  had 
objected  to  many  things  that  Jean  had  done,  he 
really  was  proud  of  the  energy  and  magnetism  that 
made  her  district  better  known  than  all  the  other  dis 
tricts  combined.  He  had  rather  enjoyed  reproving 
Jean,  but  had  never  considered  removing  her.  Now, 
when  he  understood  that  she  had  not  only  thought  of 
leaving,  but  was  about  to  leave,  he  offered  to  raise  her 
salary.  Nothing  else  occurred  to  him. 

"It's  nice  of  you,  and  I  appreciate  your  appreciation 
of  what  I  have  tried  to  do,  but  really,  Dr.  Pedloe,  it 
is  not  a  question  of  money,  at  all.  I  have  just  out 
grown  it.  I  am  not  making  any  criticism,  but  I  feel 
stifled.  I  want  a  bigger  coat.  The  old  one  is  too 

tight." 

To  refer  to  the  elaborate  organization  of  which  he 
had  been  the  head  for  fifteen  years,  as  an  old  coat 
possible  to  outgrow  in  six,  annoyed  and  amused  him. 

"Really,  Mrs.  Herrick,  I  don't  see  where  you  are 
going  to  find  a  fitting  garment.  Expanding — er — 
coats  are  rather  tricky  garments." 

The  remark  pleased  him  and  he  smiled. 

"I  have  found  one."  Jean  outlined  her  idea  of  a 
Woman's  Congress,  in  time  to  grow  to  national  pro 
portions. 

"It  will  take  years,  Mrs.  Herrick." 

"It  may.    And  then,  again,  it  may  not.w 

"In  the  meantime  it  will  be  just  as  suffocating  as 
anything  else." 

"That's  where  we  don't  agree.  It's  constructive. 

267 


268          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

We  shall  be  building  towards  something,  slowly,  no 
doubt,  but  surely.  We  shall  not  be — patching  use 
lessly." 

Dr.  Pedloe's  smile  vanished.  "I  wish  you  every  suc 
cess,  Mrs.  Herrick.  No  doubt  we  can  still  be  mutually 
helpful.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do,  please  believe 
that  the  patched  coat  is  at  your  disposal.  I  under 
stand  that  you  wish  to  sever  your  connection  by  the 
end  of  the  month?" 

"I  should  like  to  very  much.  We  are  going  to  try 
and  get  into  running  order  as  a  definite  organization 
before  the  summer  vacation  takes  every  one  out  of 
town,  and  be  ready  to  plunge  in  head  first  in  the  fall." 

"I  see." 

"But  of  course,  if  you  have  no  one  in  mind  for  my 
district,  or  would  like  me  to  stay  on  a  few  weeks  to 
break  in  my  successor " 

"I  don't  believe,  Mrs.  Herrick,  I  need  to  trespass 
on  your  new  interest  to  that  extent.  I  have  in  mind 
Miss  Carlisle,  of  Upper  West.  She  is  much  more 
fitted  by  experience  and  temperament  for  your  district 
than  for  her  own  simple  one.  I  have  been  wanting  to 
put  her  in  a  larger  field  for  some  time." 

"Then  perhaps " 

Dr.  Pedloe  nodded.  "I  don't  mean  to  suggest — but 
if  you  care  to  assume  your  new  duties  before  the  end 
of  the  month,  I  should  not  want  you  to  feel  that  we 
stand  in  your  way.  You  are  taking  Miss  Grimes 
with  you?  Then  Miss  Carlisle  might  come  down  for 
a  couple  of  days,  shall  we  say  the  beginning  of  the 
week,  to  get  a  general  idea  of  your  office  system.  Would 
that  be  perfectly  satisfactory?" 

"Oh,  quite.  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  be  so  con 
siderate." 

Dr.  Pedloe  rose,  his  dignity  saved.  "Perhaps  I  shall 
call  upon  your  organization  some  day  for  a  return, 
favor." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          269 

Jean  wanted  to  wink  at  him,  but  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

"We  shall  be  more  than  glad." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Dr.  Pedloe  turned  to  his  desk 
as  if,  in  the  half  hour's  talk,  mammoth  duties  had  accu 
mulated.  Jean  let  herself  out. 

Down  on  the  sidewalk  she  stood  still  and  laughed 
until  she  realized  that  people  were  staring. 

"He  did  it,  got  it  in  by  the  tail,  but  got  it.  Fired, 
by  Gosh!" 

She  could  scarcely  keep  from  telling  Ben  as  he  took 
her  up  in  the  elevator  to  her  own  office,  or  Miss  Grimes, 
who  was  the  only  one  in.  But  the  former  would  have 
been  so  puzzled  and  the  latter  so  indignant,  that  she 
refrained.  Besides,  only  two  people  could  get  the  full 
flavor,  Mary  and  Gregory.  She  was  going  to  have  tea 
with  him  at  half  past  four,  and  there  was  not  a  spare 
moment  before  that.  Mary  would  have  to  wait. 

In  the  privacy  of  her  own  office,  Jean  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  and  stretched  her  arms  to  the  spring 
air  pouring  in  at  the  open  window. 

"It's  going  to  be  another  glorious  summer.  A  per 
fectly  ripping  summer." 

Then  she  turned  to  work  and  refused  to  think  of 
anything  else  until  the  clock  struck  four.  On  the 
first  stroke  she  closed  and  locked  the  desk. 

Usually  Jean  reached  the  tea  room  first.  She  liked 
it  so.  She  liked  to  be  there  a  few  moments  ahead,  to 
listen  to  the  hum  of  women's  voices,  catch  scraps  of 
conversation  from  a  world  of  other  interests,  and  then, 
to  look  up  and  see  Gregory  cutting  through  it  straight 
to  her.  It  set  her  apart,  made  her  a  direct  choice  in 
a  concrete  way  that  never  failed  to  make  her  heart 
give  an  extra  throb. 

But  to-day  Gregory  was  already  there.  He  was 
sitting  with  his  elbow  on  the  table,  his  chin  in  his 
hand.  With  his  free  hand  he  traced  idle  designs  on 


270         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

the  tablecloth.  At  the  sight  of  Jean  he  rose  and  drew 
out  her  chair,  letting  his  hands  rest  for  a  moment  on 
her  shoulders,  which  was  the  only  caress  the  publicity 
allowed.  But  as  he  took  his  own  place  again,  Jean  saw 
the  worried  look  in  his  eyes.  Gregory  rarely  came 
troubled  to  tea,  and  when  he  did,  it  took  only  a  few 
moments  to  drive  it  away.  Sometimes  she  liked  him 
to  be  a  little  tired,  for  the  joy  of  dissipating  it. 

"Well,  how  did  things  go  to-day?"  It  was  their 
stock  beginning,  but  to-day  there  was  a  forced  interest 
in  the  tone  that  struck  through  Jean's  gayety. 

"Great!     I've  been  fired." 

"That's  a  good  cause  for  gratitude."  For  a  moment 
they  smiled  in  understanding  of  their  own  viewpoint. 
Then  the  tea  and  muffins  came  and  Jean  began  to 
describe  Dr.  Pedloe's  disapproval  of  her  and  all  her 
works.  Gregory  listened  and  his  eyes  appreciated  the 
points  as  Jean  made  them.  But  he  offered  no  comments 
of  his  own  and  suddenly  Jean  wondered  whether  he  was 
listening  at  all.  Gregory  never  sat  attending  in  that 
absent  way.  Fear  crept  on  Jean,  but  she  pushed  it 
aside.  If  it  were  something  serious  he  would  tell  her. 
But  nothing  very  terrible  could  have  happened  in  the 
twenty-four  hours  since  she  had  seen  him.  His  work 
was  going  well  and  he  was  pleased  with  the  designs 
for  the  contest.  Still  he  sat  there,  crumbling  the 
muffin  which  he  made  no  pretense  of  eating.  Jean 
went  on  with  the  telling,  but  her  own  interest  lessened. 

Across  the  table,  Gregory  believed  he  was  listening 
with  the  outward  show  of  interest  he  always  felt.  But 
there  was  no  real  interest  in  him.  For  Puck  was  sick. 
She  had  been  ailing  for  several  days,  and  this  morning 
the  doctor  had  come,  and  after  he  had  looked  at  Puck 
and  talked  a  little  with  Margaret,  he  had  telephoned 
for  a  nurse.  Gregory's  nerves  were  still  taut  with  the 
anxiety  of  waiting  for  the  doctor  to  come  from  Puck 
and  tell  him  what  was  the  matter.  Like  all  persons 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          271 

unused  to  illness,  he  wanted  the  relief  of  a  specific 
name.  It  localized  the  danger  and  brought  the  enemy 
into  the  open.  He  had  steeled  himself  to  anything,  for 
Margaret's  excited  helplessness  had  ended  in  a  burst 
of  hysteria  and  he  knew  he  would  have  to  face  it  alone. 
Then  the  door  of  Puck's  room  had  opened  and  the 
doctor  beckoned  to  him.  Puck's  fever-bright  eyes 
looked  at  him  without  recognition,  and  Gregory  knew 
that  if  Puck  died  he  would  remember  her  always  like 
that,  so  small  in  her  white  bed,  with  no  smile  of  wel 
come  for  him,  and  unconscious  of  Lady  Jane  by  her 
side. 

"There  is  nothing  to  worry  about,  but  I  will  be  frank 
with  you,  there  is  a  lot  to  look  out  for.  Your  child  is 
one  of  the  finest  samples  of  modern,  high-strung  baby 
nerves  that  I  have  seen  in  a  long  while.  That  fever 
doesn't  amount  to  anything  and  she  will  be  up  in  a  few 
days.  It  won't  be  necessary  for  me  to  come  again,  so 
I  will  tell  you  now,  keep  her  back.  She  is  too  old  for 
her  years  already.  She  has  inherited  a  rather 
hysterical  nervous  tendency,  but  she's  got  a  will  of 
iron  too.  She  rarely  cries,  does  she?  No.  I  thought 
not.  If  she  threw  things  around  and  had  what  old- 
fashioned  parents  used  to  call  'a  bad  temper,'  she  would 
let  off  the  steam  that  way.  But  she  doesn't.  We 
grownups  forget  all  about  our  own  childhood.  There, 
I  guess  that's  all.  Keep  her  back.  Don't  reason  with 
her  too  much.  She  thinks  too  hard,  anyhow.  A  little 
of  the  plain  old-style  faith  in  what  mother  says  or 
father  says  is  wonderfully  restful,  like  believing  in  God 
when  we  grow  up.  See  that  she  has  other  children  to 
play  with,  and  keep  an  eye  on  her  yourself.  We  men 
so  often  think  that  children  are — any  woman's  special 
province." 

Gregory  had  sat  on  beside  Puck's  bed  until  the  nurse 
came.  And  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  put  Puck, 
a  wailing  mite,  into  his  arms,  he  had  felt  helpless,  in- 


272         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

adequate,  lost  in  the  problem  of  the  small  person,  so 
distinctly  a  bit  of  himself.  And  of  Margaret.  .  .  . 

He  had  come  to  meet  Jean,  full  of  the  need  to  talk 
about  this,  to  get  a  little  of  her  sanity.  But  now, 
sitting  opposite  her,  he  could  not  do  it.  It  belonged 
so  completely  to  the  world  outside  their  world.  How 
could  he  tell  any  one,  Jean  least  of  all,  this  fear  that 
Puck  might  grow  up  like  her  mother?  For  the  first 
time,  tea  with  Jean  was  an  effort,  held  something  of 
the  same  quality  that  the  forced  cheerfulness  of  din 
ners  with  Margaret  had.  As  he  crumbled  his  muffin 
and  listened,  Gregory  tried  to  be  just.  It  was  not  fair 
to  Jean  to  drag  his  worries  into  their  hour,  but  the 
effort  to  keep  them  out  tangled  his  already  too  com 
plex  world  almost  to  breaking. 

Jean  watched  the  nervous  working  of  his  fingers  and 
her  fear  grew.  Something  must  be  very  wrong.  Her 
longing  to  comfort  him  struggled  with  her  pride 
against  asking  a  confidence  he  might  not  wish  to  give. 
At  last  pride  went  to  defeat. 

Jean  covered  his  hand  with  hers. 

"What  is  it,  Gregory?    You  look  worried  to  death.'* 

Her  touch  assured  him  sympathy.  He  would  tell 
her.  What?  Ask  her  to  understand  all  that  Puck 
meant  to  him?  Show  her  a  part  of  his  life  that  she 
did  not  touch  at  all? 

"Out  with  it."  The  forced  gayety  of  the  tone  rasped. 
He  wanted  to  withdraw  his  hand.  Where  was  the 
boasted  intuition  of  feminine  love?  Why  didn't  Jean 
know  what  he  wanted  to  tell  her?  The  firm  fingers 
pressed  his,  as  if  to  give  him  courage.  He  looked  up. 
Jean  was  waiting  with  a  calm  strength  in  her  eyes. 
What  on  earth  did  she  think  was  the  matter?  The 
situation  became  suddenly  overtuned  and  ridiculous. 
Gregory  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose. 

"Nothing,  really.    Have  I  been  such  an  awful  bore? 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          273 

I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  terribly  tired.    I  was  up  all  night." 

"Why?" 

Jean's  eyes,  on  a  level  with  Ins  own,  demanded  the 
truth.  Gregory  felt  trapped  and  angry. 

"Oh,  that  damned  contest.  I've  been  working  for 
the  last  two  weeks  on  the  wrong  tack."  He  held  her 
coat  and  Jean  turned  to  slip  her  arms  into  the  sleeves. 

What  a  silly  she  had  been!  As  if  any  man  ever 
lost  a  night's  sleep  and  was  the  same  the  next  day. 
After  all,  she  was  rather  like  Martha  sometimes.  Jean 
smiled  to  herself. 

As  he  turned  up  the  collar  of  her  coat,  Gregory's 
fingers  brushed  her  cheek.  She  turned  her  head  and 
kissed  them  swiftly. 

"WTell,  rub  it  out  and  do  it  over  again,  because  you 
know  you're  gomg  to  win." 

Gregory  met  the  nurse  in  the  hall.  She  carried  Lady 
Jane  in  her  arms  and  smiled  reassuringly. 

"She  is  ever  so  much  better.  She  had  a  fine  sleep 
and  woke  with  no  fever  at  all.  She  asked  for  you." 

Puck  was  propped  up  with  pillows,  her  eyes  fastened 
on  the  door  waiting  for  Lady  Jane.  At  the  sight  of 
Gregory  she  wriggled  with  delight. 

"Well,  Pucklets,  all  better?" 

He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  put  an  arm 
about  her.  Lady  Jane  was  forgotten.  Puck  reached 
up  and  stroked  his  cheek.  It  was  an  old  gesture  of 
Margaret's,  and  brought  back  sharply  the  days  of  his 
brief  engagement  when,  sitting  on  the  arm  of  Mar 
garet's  chair  before  the  library  fire,  with  the  slender 
grace  of  her  pressed  near,  he  had  wanted  sometimes 
to  crush  her  to  him.  But  always  she  had  seemed  to 
sense  the  ferocity  of  his  mood  and  to  stave  it  off  by 
this  gentle  stroking  of  his  cheek,  as  she  might  have 
quieted  her  pet  Angora.  Gregory  drew  a  little  beyond 
the  reach  of  Puck's  touch,  and  she  nestled  to  him. 


274          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Quite  all  well,  Puckie,  sure?" 

Puck  nodded.  "I  got  all  better  when  I  went  to  sleep. 
I  can  get  up  to-morrow,  can't  I,  Miss  Burns?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  but  very  soon,  if  you're 
a  good  girl  and  don't  talk  to  father  too  much." 

"I  won't."  Puck's  lips  snapped  as  if  she  were  never 
going  to  say  another  word  and  the  nurse  went  out 
laughing. 

Gregory's  hold  tightened.  He  had  always  thought 
of  Puck  as  another  self,  very  small  and  feminine,  but 
still  a  great  part  of  himself.  Now  he  knew  that  she 
was  Margaret,  too.  And  something  else,  beyond  them 
both.  She  was  herself.  She  was  a  part  of  his  ex 
perience,  his  reaction,  his  fate.  And  yet  her  own  ex 
perience,  her  own  reaction,  her  fate  could  never  be  his. 
Sitting  with  his  arms  tight  about  Puck,  who  soon  fell 
asleep,  Gregory  felt  the  terrible  isolation  of  every  liv 
ing  soul.  No  one  could  ever  reach  another.  He  and 
Margaret  were  worlds  apart.  They  had  never  really 
touched  at  all.  They  had  created  Puck  and  Puck  was 
distinctly  herself  and  apart.  She  would  grow  up  and 
marry  and  have  children  of  her  own.  .  .  . 

Gregory  put  Puck  back  on  the  pillow  and  tiptoed 
from  the  room.  Annie  was  just  bringing  in  the  soup. 
In  a  few  moments  he  and  Margaret  were  eating,  and 
Margaret  was  retailing  the  misfortunes  of  the  Burns 
family,  which  had  forced  pretty  Gertrude  Burns  to 
take  up  nursing. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 

AT  the  end  of  the  week  Miss  Burns  left  and  in  a  few 
days  Puck  was  running  about  the  house  as  usual. 
The  only  reminder  that  something  had  changed  some 
where  in  his  world,  were  the  advertisements  of  summer 
resorts  that  littered  Margaret's  desk.  The  doctor  had 
ordered  "bracing  air,  salt  water  and  everything  as  un 
like  the  city  as  possible."  So  Gregory  rented  their 
own  bungalow  on  Long  Island  to  Benson  for  the  sum 
mer  and  tried  to  be  patient  with  Margaret  in  her 
search.  She  finally  decided  on  a  small  boarding  house 
in  Maine,  as  far  from  civilization  as  she  could  get, 
where  there  were  other  children  for  Puck  to  play  with. 
Margaret  did  not  expect  to  enjoy  the  summer  and 
measured  her  devotion  to  Puck  by  the  degree  of  her 
own  discomfort. 

Puck  was  not  told  until  it  was  necessary  to  pack 
Lady  Jane's  things.  Then  she  was  hysterical  with 
excitement  at  the  idea  of  going  ^a,  long,  long  way  on 
a  boat."  She  invested  Maine  with  all  the  magic  de 
tails  of  Gregory's  bedtime  stories.  But  when  she  found 
that  he  was  not  coming  with  them,  her  joy  died  as  sud 
denly  as  if  it  had  been  turned  off  with  a  spigot. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  'a  long,  long  way  on  a  boat' 
without  my  daddy."  She  squared  her  shoulders  and 
looked  quietly  at  Margaret. 

"But  it's  too  far,  dear.  Daddy  has  to  stay  and 
work  for  us  and  we  mustn't  tease  him." 

"I  don't  want  my  daddy  to  stay  and  work  for  us." 

"But,  Puck,  it's  a  lovely  place,  with  the  great  big 

275 


276         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

green  sea  rolling  in  almost  to  the  house  and  little  boats 
to  go  out  in  when  it's  calm." 

"I  don't  want  the  sea  to  roll  into  the  house,  and 
who'll  take  me  out  in  the  little  boats?" 

"The  man  will.  He  takes  all  the  children  every 
day." 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to  go." 

Margaret  did  not  argue  the  matter  further  and  went 
on  packing  the  trunks.  Puck,  however,  stopped  all 
preparations  and  sat  with  her  brows  drawn  in  a  frown 
exactly  like  Gregory's,  hugging  Lady  Jane. 

She  did  not  run  to  meet  Gregory  that  night  and 
through  dinner  scarcely  spoke.  Gregory  watched  her 
anxiously.  At  half  past  eight,  without  being  told,  she 
went  to  get  ready  for  bed. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Puck?" 

"I  had  to  tell  her  this  afternoon  that  you  can't 
come  with  us." 

Gregory  put  down  the  evening  paper.  "I  suppose 
you  exaggerated  it's  being  a  long  way,  and  she  thinks 
she's  going  to  the  ends  of  the  earth?" 

"You  needn't  be  rude.  Please  remember  that  it  will 
be  no  particular  pleasure  taking  a  nervous  child  on  a 
sea  trip  alone." 

"Damn !" 

Margaret  bit  her  lip.  "If  you  could  control  your 
temper  until  we're  out  of  the  way,  it  would  help.  I 
have  had  about  all  I  can  stand  with  her  and  finding 
the  place  and  settling  the  details." 

Gregory  was  ashamed  of  his  outburst.  After  all, 
Margaret  could  not  help  being  herself  and  he  was  sorry 
for  her  in  an  impersonal  way. 

"But  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  much  about  her 
nerves.  A  baby  scarcely  six.  You'll  make  her  so." 

"I  don't  think  you  can  tell  me  anything  about  Puck 
that  I  don't  know.  Remember,  I  am  with  her  all  day, 
not  just  at  night  in  time  to  tell  her  stories.  If  any 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          277 

one  excites  and  makes  her  nervous,  it's  you.  Remem 
ber,  you  never  hear  the  versions  of  those  stories  she 
gives  Lady  Jane." 

Margaret  had  used  this  shaft  so  often  that  the  barb 
had  dulled.  "Well,  she's  not  going  to  have  any  of  them 
for  some  time." 

Puck's  bare  feet  pattered  along  the  hall  and  she 
entered  ready  for  her  bed  in  her  little  white  pajamas, 
that  buttoned  up  the  back  out  of  her  reach.  Gregory 
buttoned  them  and  swung  her  into  his  lap. 

"Where's  Lady  Jane?  Is  she  too  tired  for  a  story 
to-night?" 

"Lady  Jane  don't  feel  like  stories  to-night.'* 

"Dear  me !    She's  not  sick,  is  she?" 

"No,  she's  not  sick,  really.  But  she  isn't  very 
happy." 

Across  Puck's  head,  Margaret  made  warning  signs 
to  Gregory  to  drop  the  subject,  but  his  hold  only 
tightened  and  he  rubbed  his  chin  on  Puck's  soft  hair. 

"That's  too  bad,  Puckie.  What's  she  unhappy 
about?" 

Puck  herself  had  been  warned  not  to  mention  Maine 
but  nothing  had  been  said  about  Lady  Jane.  And 
Lady  Jane  was  desperately  unhappy,  almost  as  miser 
able  as  Puck  herself. 

"I — don't — think — she  wants  to  go  to — Maine." 

"Oh,  she'll  like  it  after  she  gets  there.  Especially 
if  you  take  Priscilla  and  Dorothy  along  too." 

"They  don't  want  to  go  either." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  You  go  along 
with  mother  on  Monday,  and  then,  if  you  want  Lady 
Jane  or  Priscilla,  I'll  bring  them  when  I  come." 

Puck  jerked  upright  in  his  arms.  They  looked  at 
each  other.  Slowly  Puck  smiled.  Gregory  smiled  back. 
With  his  hands  on  the  slight  shoulders,  he  looked  into 
her  eyes. 

"I  can't  come  up  with  you  and  mother,  Pucklets,  but 


278         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

I'll  come  later,  before  the  summer  is  over  and  stay  a 
whole  month." 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  Margaret  wondered 
why  men  were  so  annoying.  Without  a  doubt,  Gregory 
had  intended  to  come  up,  but  it  was  just  like  him  to 
give  no  one  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  it. 

"I  think,  daddy,  I'll  take  Lady  Jane  and  Priscilla. 
You  couldn't  take  care  of  them  very  well,  could  you?'* 

"I  think  that  would  be  better.  I  don't  quite  under 
stand  about  their  food,"  he  added,  remembering  sud 
denly  that  Lady  Jane  and  Priscilla  were  in  the  stage 
of  being  babies  for  the  last  two  weeks. 

Puck  cuddled  into  his  arms  with  a  deep  sigh  of  re 
lief.  Her  tottering  world  was  stable  again. 

"Tell  me  about  Pergameleon,"  she  demanded,  and 
Gregory  obeyed  with  the  garbled  version  that  passed 
for  the  story  between  them. 

A  week  later  he  saw  them  off  on  the  boat  and  came 
back  to  Gramercy  Park  to  have  dinner  with  Jean. 

It  was  going  to  be  a  happy  summer. 

After  much  deliberation  Dr.  Mary  had  taken  a 
second  year's  leave  from  the  Neighborhood  House,  and 
gone  to  London  for  the  summer  to  study  conditions  in 
the  East  End.  The  house  was  theirs. 

Gregory  felt  young  and  carefree  as  he  touched  the 
bell  button,  with  the  one  long  and  two  short,  that  was 
his  ring. 

Enveloped  in  a  kitchen  apron,  her  hands  covered 
with  flour,  Jean  opened  the  door. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do?" 

"How  do  you  do  ?  I  thought  I  should  find  Dr.  Mac- 
Lean.  She's  not  in?" 

"No,  I'm  sorry,  but  she's  just  run  over  to  London 
for  a  minute.  Will  you  leave  a  message?" 

"If  I  may.  Will  you  tell  her,  please,  that  you're 
the  most  glorious  thing  in  the  world  and  I  love  you?" 

The  last  words  were  buried  in  the  warm  smoothness 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          279 

of  Jean's  neck.  She  turned  her  head  and  their  lips 
met. 

"Now,  if  you'll  go  and  take  off  your  coat  and  put  on 
an  apron  you  can  help  me  make  some  Martha  Norris 
biscuits." 

Gregory  did  as  he  was  told,  and  they  got  dinner 
together.  Afterwards  they  went  into  the  living-room 
where  they  had  sat  so  often  the  summer  before,  good 
friends,  disturbed  in  no  way  by  the  presence  of  the 
little  doctor,  and  Jean  wondered  what  power  had  ar 
ranged  this  summer,  so  far  beyond  her  dreams.  Mary 
in  London,  Margaret  and  Puck  in  Maine,  beyond  the 
reach  of  week-ends  even.  There  was  only  Martha. 

Deep  in  the  leather  chair,  with  Gregory's  arms  about 
her,  his  fingers  moving  gently  over  her  cheek  and 
throat,  Jean  wished  that  Martha  would  go  away  too. 
She  wanted  them  all  out  of  her  life,  every  one,  for  the 
next  three  months.  Beyond  that  she  did  not  think. 

It  was  perfect.  So  perfect  that  Jean  marveled  and 
was  humble.  The  days  themselves,  the  actual  passing 
of  time  took  on  personality.  As  the  givers  of  happi 
ness,  the  hours  became  conscious.  They  were  servants 
bringing  gifts. 

Jean's  duties  were  light  and  she  and  Gregory  spent 
a  part  of  each  day  together.  The  quiet  tea-room  was 
now  a  thing  of  the  past,  so  far  in  the  past  that  Jean 
smiled  whenever  she  remembered  how  homelike  it  had 
once  seemed.  They  had  long,  lazy  afternoons  on  the 
sands  of  nearby  beaches,  making  comments  on  the 
human  shadows  that  moved  beyond  their  own  world 
of  reality.  They  chattered  like  children  or  were  silent 
as  the  mood  dictated.  They  had  dozens  of  gay  meals, 
like  the  first  they  had  prepared  on  the  night  that 
Margaret  and  Puck  had  left.  And  quiet  hours  in 
the  warm  stillness  of  the  summer  nights,  with  the  voice 
of  the  city  coming  in  echoes  over  the  dusty  trees 


280         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

of  the  Park.  These  were  the  best  of  all.  In  those 
moments  it  seemed  to  Jean  that  their  souls  mingled, 
and  that  the  law  of  each  human  soul's  separateness  was 
set  aside  for  their  benefit. 

Hampered  only  by  such  demands  as  Jean  felt  to  be 
her  duty  to  Martha,  the  weeks  slipped  by.  Ringed 
about  by  their  freedom,  Jean  felt  that  their  love  was 
striking  into  a  deeper  and  deeper  reality.  A  quality 
of  peace  and  security  enveloped  it  that  she  did  not 
know  had  been  lacking  before.  Its  roots  went  down 
below  her  personality,  the  accident  of  her  "Jeanness," 
down  into  the  stuff  of  life  itself.  Often,  when  she  and 
Gregory  sat  silent,  Jean  felt  that  this  love  was  not 
theirs  at  all;  they  were  the  possessed,  not  the  pos 
sessors. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 

THE  third   week  in   August,   Dr.   Mary  returned. 
She  came  without  wari  *ng,  so  that,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  when  Jean  came  rushing  in  to  start  dinner, 
she  stopped,  staring  at  the  figure  upon  the  couch  with 
surprise  so  intense  that  it  deprived  her  of  motion. 

"Sunstroke,  Jean?"  Mary  threw  back  the  two 
braids  of  white  hair,  drew  the  hideous  blue  dressing 
gown  closer  and  put  on  her  slippers. 

"Mary !" 

"The  same.     Come  in  and  sit  down,  won't  you?" 

Jean  smiled  and  managed  to  get  her  arms  about 
Mary  and  hug  her. 

"Well,  that's  more  like  it."  Mary  paddled  back  to 
her  couch  and  Jean  dropped  beside  her.  "My,  but  it's 
good  to  be  home  again." 

"We've  missed  you,"  Jean  ventured  and  when  she 
heard  the  ease  of  her  own  tone,  a  little  courage  came 
back.  "Now,  begin  at  the  beginning  and  tell  me  the 
whole  thing." 

To  her  relief,  Mary  did.  Jean  listened  with  a  fixed 
smile  of  understanding,  made  the  expected  comments, 
laughed  in  the  right  places,  and  waited  for  the  one  long 
and  two  short  rings  that  meant  Gregory.  While  Mary 
disposed  in  scathing  terms  of  all  English  Social  Better 
ment  work,  Jean  wondered  whether  she  had  seen  the 
fruit  and  vegetables  that  must  be  waiting  on  the  dumb 
waiter  and  how  to  explain  them.  As  far  as  Mary  knew, 
Gregory  had  dropped  from  their  lives.  And  any  mo 
ment,  it  would  come,  the  one  long  and  two  short,  and 
she  would  have  to  say  something. 

281 


282         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"I  tell  you,  Jean,  I  thought  there  was  no  brand  of 
human  left  alive,  who  could  make  me  despair  of  the 
race.  But  a  middle  class  Englishman  does.  He's 
insulated,  absolutely  insulated  in  his  own  righteous 
ness.  He  would  rather " 

There  it  was,  the  one  long  and  two  short. 

"Good  Heavens !  Jean,  are  you  giving  a  party  ?  I 
saw  a  whole  box  of  things  on  the  waiter." 

"No.  It's  only  Gregory.  I  stumbled  into  him  ac 
cidentally  one  day  and,  now  the  family's  in  Maine,  he 
comes  to  dinner  sometimes." 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned.  What  was  the  matter  with 
him?  Did  you  ever  find  out?" 

"Never  asked  him,"  Jean  remarked  from  the  door. 
"I  forgot  all  about  it,  myself.  I  don't  believe  he  ever 
thought  it  needed  any." 

"A  regular  homefest !  Run  along  and  open  the 
door.  I  won't  bother  to  change  my  things." 

Jean  opened  the  door,  but  before  Gregory  could 
take  her  in  his  arms,  she  stepped  back  with  a  warning 
look. 

"You're  much  too  early!  I  haven't  even  begun  to 
get  dinner."  She  motioned  to  the  living-room. 
"Mary,"  her  lips  formed. 

"Hell !"     Gregory  almost  said  it  aloud. 

"Well,  go  into  the  other  room  and  wait  as  patiently 
as  you  can,"  she  whispered. 

Jean  went  into  the  kitchen.  The  table  was  strewn 
with  the  things  for  dinner  just  as  Mary  had  dumped 
them  out.  Jean's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "I  won't  let 
it  end,  I  won't,  I  won't."  In  the  other  room  she  heard 
Gregory's  well-feigned  surprise  and  Mary's  laugh. 

Jean  put  on  her  apron  and  began  to  get  dinner. 
Mary's  anecdotes  flowed  on  like  a  river,  breaking  every 
now  and  then  on  the  rock  of  Gregory's  laughter.  After 
all,  perhaps  it  did  not  make  so  much  difference  to  him. 
Last  evening  they  had  sat  for  almost  an  hour,  silent, 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          283 

with  their  hands  linked  across  the  intervening  space 
between  the  chairs  and  Jean  had  been  wonderfully 
happy.  Had  he  been  happy,  too?  How  did  she  know 
that  he  had  not  been  a  little  bored  ?  Jean's  eyes  blurred 
and  the  tomato  she  was  peeling  slipped  into  the  sink 
with  a  plop. 

"You  fool.  What  do  you  expect?  She  is  interest 
ing  and  he  can't  sit  there  like  a  statue."  Jean  scooped 
up  the  tomato  and  threw  it  viciously  into  the  garbage 
pail. 

"Jean!  Oh,  Jean,  come  here  a  minute,"  Gregory 
called.  "Do  it  again  for  Jean.  It's  a  scream." 

Mary  twitched  the  dressing  gown  so  that  it  trailed 
like  a  royal  robe  and  twisted  the  white  hair  into  a  knob 
not  unlike  a  coronet. 

"Mamie  Horton,  of  Chicago,  now  Duchess  Mary  of 
Belfort,  doing  the  East  End,  visiting  a  family  of  eight 
living  on  three  dollars  a  week."  The  doctor's  face 
froze  into  a  mask  of  horror  and  she  pointed  dramati 
cally  to  what  was  supposed  to  be  the  laborer's  dinner 
table.  "Most  unhygienic.  I  will  send  you  a  case  of 
shredded  wheat  to-morrow!" 

"Never,  Mary.  That's  too  much.  You've  spoiled 
it." 

"Well,  it  wasn't  shredded  wheat,  but  it  was  just  as 
bad.  Jean,  I  longed  for  you.  If  there  had  been  any 
thing  in  thought  transference  you  would  have  hopped 
on  the  next  boat.  You  think  your  committee  is  bad! 
You  ought  to  see  real  caste  at  the  business.  And 
worse  than  that  are  the  Mamie  Hortons.  Why,  when 
I  told  a  group  of  the  reals  and  the  pseudos,  at  a 
luncheon,  about  the  tenements,  and  how  you  had  raised 
the  money  and  had  the  whole  thing  going  in  a  few 
months,  they  stared  at  me,  and  Horton  actually  said: 
'Reahlly,'  in  that  exasperating  English  voice  that 
means :  'You're  a  liar.'  It  takes  a  year  to  call  a  meet 
ing  over  there." 


284         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"I  suppose  she  wouldn't  believe  the  evidences  of  her 
senses  if  she  saw  them.  They're  finished  except  a  few 
last  touches." 

"Not  really,  Jean !" 

"Infected,  Mary!     'Not  reahlly!'" 

"Score !  But,  Jean,  you  don't  mean  they're  all  ready 
for  tenants  ?  I  hope  they're  not  in  yet." 

"They  will  be  in  another  week." 

Dr.  Mary  bounced  out  of  her  chair.  "Let's  go  out 
and  see  them." 

"What?    Now?" 

"Yes.  Now.  It  won't  take  long.  Gregory  can  call 
a  taxi  while  I  get  on  my  clothes.  You  don't  know  how 
I've  come  to  love  those  things,  Jean.  Whenever  that 
cumbersome  machine  of  'British  thoroughness'  lumbered 
over  me  I  used  to  say, 

"There's  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  day, 
Where  things  get  done  right  away." 

"What's  the  objection  to  going  now?  Won't  the 
food  keep?" 

"If  you've  made  up  your  mind,  it  doesn't  matter 
whether  the  food  keeps  or  not.  I  don't  suppose  there 
is  any  reason  not  to  go,  except  that  you  ought  to  be 
tired." 

"I  almost  died  resting  for  the  last  five  days.  I  could 
walk  there." 

Jean  went  back  to  take  off  her  apron  and  Gregory 
followed. 

"It'll  be  better  than  staying  here,"  he  whispered, 
with  his  arms  about  her.  "And  it  was  going  to  be 
such  a  nice  evening." 

Jean  patted  his  cheek.  "Never  mind.  We'll  have  a 
lot  more.  Now  run  along  and  call  a  taxi." 

Dr.  Mary  was  indefatigable.  She  insisted  on  in 
specting  every  floor  and  getting  the  view  from  every 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          285 

side.  And,  in  the  end,  she  pronounced  it  "a  darn  good 
job."  But  Jean  did  not  feel  it  was  "a  job"  at  all.  It 
was  a  bit  of  her  life  and  Gregory's.  It  was  built  of 
the  hours  they  had  spent  together.  It  was  not  an 
insensate  thing.  It  was  alive.  She  and  Gregory  had 
created  it.  Her  hand  moved  on  the  clean,  white  wall. 

"You  nice  living  thing.  Make  everybody  well  and 
don't  let  anybody  die." 

Jean  smiled.     It  was  somewhat  like  a  prayer. 

When  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  solarium  on 
the  roof,  they  sat  down  to  rest  on  one  of  its  green 
benches.  In  the  afterglow,  the  East  River  ran  a 
stream  of  gold.  The  span  of  the  bridges  hung  airy 
webs  in  the  heat-hazed  air.  Far  below  little  tugs 
chugged  up  and  down,  whistling.  The  gray  of  their 
smoke  filtered  through  the  gold,  softening  it  to  filmy 
gauze.  But  across  the  river,  on  the  workhouse  island, 
a  bell  clanged.  From  the  last  sunny  spots,  old  men 
and  women  came  reluctantly,  and  the  hideous  red  build 
ings  swallowed  them,  one  by  one.  Soon  they  would  all 
be  asleep,  the  old  men  in  their  wards  and  the  old' 
women  in  theirs.  Perhaps  in  the  night  some  would  die 
quietly  in  their  sleep.  In  the  morning  the  superin 
tendent  would  look  up  the  names  on  the  books,  notify 
any  relatives  he  could  find,  and  send  blanks  to  charity 
organizations  that  there  was  room  for  a  few  more  of 
the  homeless  old. 

Not  one  of  them  had  ever  expected  it  to  end  like 
that.  The  race  had  speeded  faster  and  faster,  beyond 
their  strength.  They  had  stumbled,  gone  down,  and 
been  trampled  under.  Strong  in  the  faith  of  their 
own  ability,  she  and  Mary  and  Gregory,  all  the  well- 
groomed  men  and  beautiful  gowned  women  about  them, 
went  securely  on.  But  what  guarantee  had  they 
that  this  strength  would  last  forever?  Each  human 
being  was  such  a  tiny  obstruction,  a  mere  grain  of 
sand  against  the  force  of  a  terrific  current.  Even 


286          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

in  the  small  trickle  of  the  stream  which  one  called 
one's  own  personal  affairs,  it  was  impossible  to  guide 
the  force.  Here  was  the  course  of  her  summer  twisted 
suddenly  by  an  event  over  which  she  had  no  control. 

"I  won't  let  it.     I  mil  have  the  next  four  weeks." 

"A  penny,  Jean.  You  look  as  if  you  were  settling 
the  affairs  of  nations." 

"I  was  doing  what  mummy  calls  'guiding  Provi 
dence.'  " 

"Too  strenuous  for  summer,  Jean.  Leave  it  'til 
winter." 

"No.  'Now's  the  appointed  time.'  'To-night  the 
Lord  may  come.'  Hence,  you  and  Gregory  go  home 
alone,  Mary.  I  go  to  Jersey.  I've  had  a  revelation." 

Nor  would  Jean  let  Gregory  go  even  to  the  ferry 
with  her,  but  insisted  that  he  go  back  and  hear  more 
of  the  East  End. 

"But,  dear,  I  want  to  see  you  terribly  to-night.  I 
want " 

He  had  dropped  behind  as  they  were  following 
Mary  out  so  that  for  a  moment  he  and  Jean  were  alone. 
Jean  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"Can't  be  helped.  I've  got  to  go  really.  Besides 
it's — it's  your  revelation  too." 

"I  don't  want  any  revelation.  I  want  you,"  he 
added  hotly. 

"So  do  I,  that's  why  I'm  going."  The  words  came 
in  a  low  rush,  and  then  Mary  was  looking  back  to 
them. 

But  it  was  only  when  Jean  actually  stood  with  her 
finger  on  the  button  of  Pat's  bell,  that  she  realized  how 
astonished  Pat  would  be,  and  how  she  had  neglected 
Pat  and  the  babies  that  summer.  And  once  Pat  had 
known  almost  every  thought  that  crossed  her  mind. 

"I'm  besotted,  absolutely  dippy,  and  I'd  use  God 
Almighty  if  I  needed  Him." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          287 

The  door  opened  and  Pat  herself  stood  gazing  as  if 
she  doubted  the  evidence  of  her  senses. 

"Jean!" 

Two  small  naked  figures,  lurking  in  the  shadow  of 
the  upper  landing,  came  tumbling  down  at  their 
mother's  cry  and  Jean  was  lost  in  a  tangle  of  arms  and 
legs. 

"Jean!     It's  Auntie  Jean!" 

" Jeanie,  Frank !"  Pat  clutched  at  the  waving  legs, 
while  Jean  held  them  closer  and  laughed  across  at  Pat. 

"At  least  they're  glad  to  see  me,  Pat,  and  you've 
only  shrieked  *  Jean !'  " 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Herrick.  Won't  you 
come  in?  I  was  just  putting  the  children  to  bed." 

"So  I  see.  And  we're  going  right  on  with  the 
process."  Jean  hoisted  her  namesake  to  her  shoulder 
and  started  for  the  stairs,  dragging  the  rotund  Frank 
by  the  hand. 

When  they  were  safely  tucked  in  and  Jean  had  re 
counted  as  much  of  the  old  witch  who  was  turned  into 
a  gingerbread  house  as  she  could  remember,  and  prom 
ised  to  come  soon,  "very,  very  soon,  lots  soon,"  Pat 
turned  off  the  light  and  she  and  Jean  went  down  to  the 
cool  dark  piazza,.  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  in  her 
gratitude  for  the  darkness,  Jean  realized  how  deeply 
she  hated  to  lie  to  Pat.  She  would  have  given  much 
to  be  able  to  throw  both  arms  about  Pat  and  say : 

"Patsy,  I  want  you  to  help  me.  I  want  you  to  take 
mummy  out  of  the  way.  I  want  this  last  month,  free 
and  beautiful  for  the  most  glorious  thing  in  my  life. 
There  is  only  one  little  month  left,-  Pat,  four  short 
weeks,  and  I  want  them  so." 

"I  thought  you  were  never  going  to  come  any  more, 
Jean,  and  I  was  beginning  to  get  'hurt,'  like  mummy." 

"It  wasn't  because  I  didn't  want  to  come."  Jean 
looked  out  into  the  moonlit  garden.  "But  I've  been 
terribly  busy,  and  mummy  hasn't  been  well.  The 


288         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

wards  left  Jean  with  the  feeling  that  something  very 
deep  inside  her  had  been  ripped  out. 

"Mummy  not  well?  Why,  Jean,  what's  the  mat 
ter?" 

"I  don't  know,  Pat.  You  know  she  never  complains 
and  would  sit  up  in  her  coffin  to  explain  that  she  was 
perfectly  well.  But  she  isn't.  I  want  her  to  go  away 
for  a  rest,  but  you  know  how  likely  she  is  to  do  that. 
I  can't  go  along,  too." 

"The  summer  has  been  a  fright.  Even  Frankie  got 
rather  peaked  last  month,  and  it  takes  a  great  deal 
to  wear  an  ounce  off  him." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  Jean  added,  with 
an  effort  at  a  laugh: 

"Perhaps  she's  just  homesick  for  a  little  trouble  or 
illness.  Now  if  Elsie  lived  in  some  nice  quiet  suburb 
and  was  going  to  have  one  of  her  horrible  babies,  or 
Tom  would  cut  off  a  leg,  she'd  pack  up  and  be  right 
there  on  the  dot." 

"And  you're  so  disgustingly  efficient  and  healthy! 
Poor  mummy,  you  were  never  meant  for  her  daughter. 
I  say,  do  you  suppose  she  would  come  over  here  if  I 
could  develop  something  that  doesn't  have  to  show? 
I  couldn't  turn  pale  or  faint,  not  to  save  me,  never  did 
in  my  life,  but  I  might  manage  a  general  breakdown. 
Worry  over  the  children  and  Big  Frank's  raise  in 
salar}'  ?" 

Jean  looked  away.  "Are  you  sure  it  would  be  all 
right?  She  loves  the  babies  and  she  would  come  in  a 
minute,  if  she  thought  you  needed  her." 

"Well,  I  do.     I'll  'phone  her  to-morrow." 

"She'll  come — and  thanks,  Patsy." 

Blurred  by  the  porch  screening,  a  small  patient  face 
looked  quietly  at  Jean.  Jean  got  up  quickly. 

"Let's  go  inside,  Pat.    I  believe  it's  cooler.'* 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 

GREGORY  ALLEN  had  never  intended  to  let 
three  months  pass  without  telling  Jean  of  his 
promise  to  go  to  Maine.  But  at  first  his  going  had 
seemed  a  distant  point,  and  then,  as  it  crept  nearer 
and  nearer,  the  right  moment  for  the  telling  never 
came.  Now,  how  could  he  say :  "I  am  going  to  Maine 
to-morrow  for  a  month.  I  promised  Puck  when  she 
was  ill."  He  had  said  nothing  of  the  illness  at  the 
time.  How  drag  out  his  own  state  of  mind  on  the 
afternoon  he  had  had  tea  with  Jean  and  lied  to  her? 

Gregory  wished  that  Jean  would  say  something,  al 
most  anything,  to  break  the  silence.  Not  a  soul  seemed 
to  be  alive  in  the  great  building  about  them.  On  the 
river  occasional  excursion  steamers  turned  their  daz 
zling  flashlights,  lighting  the  room  and  Palisades  to  un 
canny,  whitish  glow.  They  were  huge  phantoms  moving 
in  the  stillness.  All  the  worlds  of  the  universe  hung 
motionless  in  perfect  adjustment.  Jean  sat  utterly  at 
rest,  so  near  him  that  by  the  smallest  motion  he  could 
touch  her.  But  Gregory  did  not  move. 

"Did  you  ever  feel  anything  so  restful  ?  It's  positive, 
the  silence,  not  negative.  Listen  to  it.  I  could  almost 
'go  into  the  silence'  myself,  if  I  didn't  have  to  shut  my 
eyes  and  concentrate.  If  I  could  keep  them  open  and — 
and  dissolve  instead.  I  believe  it  would  be  rather  rest 
ful." 

"Do  you?" 

If  he  hacked  at  this  peace  with  words  he  would  force 
an  opening  through  which  an  opportunity  might  come, 

289 


290         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  Jean  would  know  that  he  did  not  want  to  go,  except 
for  his  promise  to  Puck.  But  Jean  drifted  back  into 
the  stillness  again  and  it  seemed  to  Gregory  that  she 
actually  dissolved  into  the  unfathomable  silence. 

With  a  nervous  gesture  he  rose  at  last. 

"It's  almost  two  o'clock." 

Jean  laughed.  "Frightful.  What  wiU  the  hallboy 
think?" 

But  Gregory  did  not  answer  the  laugh.  He  had  yet 
to  tell  Jean,  and  now  there  was  no  time  to  lead  up  to  it. 
He  had  to  say  baldly :  "I  am  going  away  to-morrow." 

Jean  was  smiling  at  him. 

"There's  no  need  to  look  so  desperately  serious  about 
it,  Mr.  Allen.  I  just  mention  it  casually." 

"It  is  late,  and  I  have  to  be  up  early."  Gregory 
said  and  went  into  the  hall  for  his  hat.  "I'm  going 
up  to  Maine  to-morrow  for  a  month  and  I  have  several 
things  to  do  before  I  go." 

It  seemed  hours  before  he  could  pull  against  the 
force  holding  him  where  he  was  and  turn  to  Jean.  She 
had  followed  him  and  was  standing  near,  the  teasing 
smile  still  in  her  eyes.  For  a  moment  they  looked  at 
each  other  and  then  Jean  said: 

"It  will  be  glorious  up  there  now,  but — don't  for 
get — the  contest  closes  the  first  of  October." 

In  his  relief  Gregory  took  Jean's  hands  and  bent 
cavalierly  over  them. 

"Your  command,  Fair  Lady,  is  obeyed.  I  promise 
not  to  forget."  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  kiss  her 
again  and  went  quickly. 

Was  there  another  woman  in  the  world  like  Jean? 
The  sanity  of  her  love  made  everything  possible.  In 
its  light  even  the  month  ahead  did  not  loom  so  gloomily. 
There  would  be  happy  hours  playing  with  Puck  and 
good,  stiff  work  to  finish  the  plans  in  time. 

Jean  stood  for  a  long  time  in  the  hall  and  then  went 
slowly  back  and  sat  down  by  the  window.  Something 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          291 

had  struck  her  violently  and  stunned  her  power  to  feel. 
She  saw  it  as  distinctly  outside  herself,  and  at  the  same 
time  it  was  in  some  way  connected  with  her.  It  was  like 
a  part  of  her  which  Gregory's  words  had  suddenly  cut 
away. 

There  they  lay  separated  from  her,  the  deep  peace 
and  security  of  the  summer,  the  assurance  of  her  own 
sensations,  that  wonderful  clarity  in  which  she  had 
seen  their  love  and  perfect  understanding.  And  there 
had  been  no  understanding  at  all.  The  world  that 
they  both  ignored,  because  it  was  not  a  real  world, 
was  a  real  world  to  him.  It  was  not  only  real  to  him, 
but  he  must  believe  that  it  was  so  to  her.  Otherwise 
he  would  have  told  her  before. 

Jean  looked  stupidly  about  the  room.  Last  night 
she  had  come  back  from  Pat's  and  found  Martha  read 
ing  by  the  table.  This  morning,  at  breakfast,  Pat  had 
telephoned,  and  she  had  helped  pack  Martha's  few 
things  and  taken  her  to  the  Tube.  After  that  she  had 
rung  up  Gregory  and  they  had  stolen  the  afternoon  to 
gether.  It  was  only  a  few  hours  ago  that  they  had 
come  in,  the  first  time  Gregory  had  ever  been  here. 

It  was  all  exactly  like  a  game  she  had  played  when 
she  was  a  child.  It  had  been  a  game  of  much  elaborate 
preparation.  It  had  required  the  most  violent  up 
heavals  of  the  doll's  house,  terrific  cleaning  and  wash 
ing  of  everything.  Martha  always  made  special  cookies 
and  Jean  was  given  ten  cents  for  lemons  and  candy. 
Early  in  the  morning  of  the  day  itself,  Jean  began  tele 
phoning  along  the  clothes-line  to  imaginary  guests. 
But  no  guests  ever  came  to  the  party,  because  no 
children  lived  near,  and  in  the  end  Jean  had  always 
had  her  party  alone. 

At  dawn,  weary  with  the  endless  round,  Jean  went 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE 

MARY  had  decided  to  stay  on  and  work  for  an  M.  A. 
at  Columbia.  She  was  busy  choosing  courses  of 
study  and  quarreling  with  professors  about  prerequi 
sites,  so  Jean,  by  pleading  extra  work  herself,  managed 
to  keep  away  from  Gramercy  Park  for  the  first  days  of 
Gregory's  going. 

In  the  morning  she  went  to  the  office  and  at  night 
she  came  back.  She  tried  to  read  and  turned  page 
after  page  with  a  detached  sense  of  accomplishment 
in  which  all  understanding  of  the  words  was  lost. 
Finally,  one  night,  when  she  had  read  from  eight  till 
eleven,  and  found  that  it  was  not  the  same  book  she 
had  been  reading  so  dutifully  for  days,  Jean  threw  it 
across  the  room,  and,  standing  defiantly  in  the  center 
of  the  floor,  faced  the  thoughts  that  she  had  refused 
entrance  since  the  morning  she  had  crept  to  bed  in  the 
gray  dawn. 

"Well?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  What 
can  you  do  about  it?  Why  is  this  any  different  from 
his  going  away  for  a  week-end?" 

With  her  hands  in  the  side  pockets  of  her  skirt,  Jean 
paced  up  and  down.  It  was  the  way  she  straightened 
tangles  in  her  work,  and  the  familiar  rhythm  seemed  to 
throw  this  problem  to  an  impersonal  distance,  beyond 
the  haze  of  her  own  emotions. 

"Well  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Are  you  going 
around  always  clouded  up  in  this  tragedy?  He  isn't 
any  more  married  now  than  he  was  in  the  beginning, 
and  you  knew  it  from  the  very  first.  You  knew  he  had 
duties  and  obligations.  You  rather  prided  yourself  on 

292 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          293 

your  logical  attitude  toward  them.  You  weren't  being 
logical.  You  couldn't  deny  them  because  they  were 
right  there  in  front  of  you.  But  the  first  minute  you 
got  a  chance  to  close  your  eyes,  you  shut  them  so  tight 
that — that  it's  taken  an  operation  to  open  them." 

Jean  stopped  before  the  window  and  leaned  with  both 
hands  on  the  sill,  frowning  into  the  night. 

"He  would  have  gone  on  living  his  life  and  so  would 
you,  and  you  would  have  done  your  work,  too,  if  you 
had  never  met  at  all.  Yes,  you  would,  and  so  would 
he."  The  corners  of  Jean's  lips  twitched,  for  always 
before,  when  she  had  thought  of  Gregory's  home,  she 
had  thought  of  it  as  something  he  had  acquired  by  ac 
cident,  not  as  something  that  he  had  made,  an  ex 
pression  of  himself.  "We  do  mean  something  to  each 
other,  something  terribly  real,  but  it  won't  be  real,  if 
you  begin  to  mess  it  up  with  jealousy.  That's  what 
it  is — jealousy.  You  know  that  nothing  in  the  world 
could  have  dragged  you  out  of  town  this  summer  and 
you're  mad  and  hurt  and  jealous  clear  through. 
There!  Put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it  whether 
you  like  the  flavor  or  not." 

Jean  began  walking  again.  She  went  very  carefully 
through  the  summer,  picking  up  the  happy  hours  from 
the  scattered  heap  into  which  Gregory's  going  had 
shattered  them,  and  built  them  anew. 

"The  trouble  was  that  you  never  recognized  the  con 
ditions  ;  all  you  did  was  to  ignore  them,  until  you  came 
to  believe  they  weren't  there."  Again  and  again  Jean 
dragged  this  fact  forward  from  the  background  into 
which  it  was  always  slipping.  "You  never  mentioned 
his  wife  or  Puck  and  you  slopped  it  all  over  with) 
'delicacy  and  broad-mindedness.'  You  were  afraid, 
that's  what  you  were,  whether  you  knew  it  or  not." 

Jean  came  to  a  halt  again  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

''Now,  Jean  Norris,  from  now  on  you're  going  to 
face  things  as  they  are.  You  are  not  going  to  ignore 


294          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

the  existence  of  his  wife,  or  of  Puck.  You're  either 
going  to — or  quit." 

But  the  idea  of  quitting  was  so  ridiculous  that  Jean 
laughed  out  loud. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  she  wrote  a  long,  cheerful 
letter  to  Gregory  and  went  to  have  dinner  with  Mary. 

Gregory  answered  by  return  mail.  He  said  he  was 
working  on  the  plans,  which  were  getting  along,  but 
he  was  so  sick  of  them  he  didn't  know  whether  they 
were  good  or  bad.  He  never  mentioned  the  country 
nor  how  he  passed  his  time  when  he  was  not  working. 
Only  at  the  very  end  there  was  a  line  clear  across  the 
paper  of  extremely  thin  and  wobbly  columns,  under 
which  he  had  printed :  "These  are  the  other  boarders. 
Christian  Scientists." 

Jean  kissed  the  letter  and  tore  it  up.  "I  don't  want 
to  take  to  'carrying  it  in  my  bosom.' ' 

A  week  later  Jean  came  home  early  one  night,  after 
a  cheerful  evening  with  Mary,  to  find  Martha  quietly 
mending  under  the  lamp. 

"Why,  mummy  Norris!"  Jean  took  Martha's  sew 
ing  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  Squatting  on  her  heels, 
she  grinned  with  mock  reproof.  "Why,  Mrs.  Norris, 
may  I  ask?  Did  I  tell  you  you  could  come  home?" 

Martha's  eyes  twinkled.  "You  may  be  a  very  im 
portant  person  in  the  outside  world,  Jeany,  but  you're 
my  baby  yet,  and  I  think  I'll  come  and  go  a  few  years 
longer  without  asking  permission.  Besides,  Pat  is 
all  right  and  has  a  thousand  times  more  sense  than  you 
have  and  is  far  better  able  to  look  out  for  herself." 
Martha  pointed  to  the  mending  on  the  table. 

"It's  not  inability,  mummy,  it's  a  question  of  be 
lief.  It's  an  economic  principle.  Why  should  I  mend 
stockings  when  I  ought  to  be  resting  my  mammoth 
brain  for  further  world  efforts?  And  if  I  could  make 
you  understand,  think  of  the  extra  pennies  some  poor 
woman  might  earn." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          295 

"Economics !     Fiddlesticks !" 

"All  right !  I'll  bring  you  home  a  brochure  to-mor 
row  on  Conserving  Mental  Waste.  Maybe  you'll  be 
lieve  it  when  you  see  it  in  print." 

"You'll  never  make  me  believe  it's  good  economics  or 
anything  else,  to  wear  stockings  like  those."  Martha 
held  up  a  pair  run  from  heel  to  knee,  with  a  great  gap 
at  the  toes. 

"And  you'll  never  make  me  believe  it  isn't 
a  wicked  waste  of  time  to  mend  them  like  that."  Jean 
seized  a  pair  from  the  neat  pile.  "You  can't  tell  which 
was  the  original  thread  and  which  was  the  mend." 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  all  right  if  I  mended  them  so 
they  would  hurt  your  feet.  After  all,  Jean,  logic  is 
not  your  strong  point,  whatever  you  or  your  brochures 
may  say." 

Jean  hugged  her.  "I'm  rather  coming  to  that  be 
lief  myself,  mummy.  What  time  did  you  get  back?" 

"About  five.  I  didn't  suppose  you  came  home  to 
dinner,  but " 

"Mummy,  is  there  some  sherbet  in  the  icebox?" 

«T 5> 

"Is  there  some  mousse  in  the  icebox?" 
"There  is." 

"And  is  it  pineapple?     Answer  me!" 
"I  rather  think  I  did  make  pineapple." 
"What's  the  matter  with  my  logic,  now?" 
Martha  laughed  and  picked  up  the  mending.     "It's 
not  the  same  thing  at  all,  but  you'll  only  talk  me  down 
anyhow.    So   go   and   get   the   sherbet.      I  believe   I'll 
have  some,  too." 

While  they  ate  it  Martha  talked  of  Pat  and  the 
children  and  for  some  reason  Jean  felt  that  life  was 
safe  and  sure  again.  There  could  be  nothing  very 
terrible  in  a  world  where  little  children  said  the  delight 
ful  things  that  Pat's  babies  did,  where  women  like  Mary 
kept  their  belief  and  enthusiasm  undimmed,  and  the 


296          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Marthas    thoughtfully   made   pineapple   mousse    as   a 
surprise. 

Four  weeks  to  the  day,  Gregory  wired  that  he  would 
be  back  and  to  keep  Sunday  for  a  walk.  The  world 
was  a  nice  place,  a  very  nice  place,  indeed. 

Sunday  was  a  day  of  blue  haze  and  golden  sun. 

"It  was  made  expressly  for  us;  I  ordered  it," 
Gregory  declared,  as  he  and  Jean  swung  along,  under 
arching  maples  that  were  just  beginning  to  turn 
crimson,  with  here  and  there  a  brilliant  scarlet  leaf 
among  the  green.  The  fences  were  buried  under  honey 
suckle  and  wild  blackberries.  The  summer  was  pass 
ing  in  one  last  passionate  abandonment  of  giving.  The 
bare  brown  earth,  freed  from  the  burden  of  crops,  like 
a  woman  released  from  family  cares,  went  back  to  its 
youth.  The  air  was  pungent  with  the  sting  of  sun- 
warmed  loam.  The  old  world  frolicked  in  a  second 
love. 

Gregory  felt  that  he  was  physically  leaving  the 
dismal  month  through  which  he  had  just  passed,  be 
hind  him.  He  strode  along  and  knew  in  every  nerve 
that  Jean  was  there  beside  him,  just  as  strong  and 
unwearying  as  he,  stepping  step  for  step  with  him. 
He  had  thought  of  her  so,  very  often  in  the  last  four 
weeks,  even  when  he  was  wading  out  into  the  breakers 
with  Puck  perched  on  his  shoulders,  beating  his  chest 
with  her  small,  hard  heels  and  shrieking  with  delight. 

Gregory  seized  Jean's  hand  and  they  shot  down 
the  green-roofed  lane.  Terrified  birds  winged  with 
shrill  calls  into  the  blue  and  an  old  cow,  chewing  her 
cud  in  a  quiet  corner,  lumbered  away  to  safety.  At 
the  end  of  the  lane,  Gregory  stopped  unexpectedly  and 
Jean  spun  round  him  like  a  top  at  the  end  of  a  string. 

"Gregory!  Whatever's  struck  you?'*  In  the  circle 
of  his  arms  Jean  got  back  her  breath. 

"The  earth  and  you,  a  most  intoxicating  combina 
tion." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          297 

Between  each  word  Gregory  kissed  her.  Jean  rested 
against  his  clasped  hands.  "Well,  don't  make  me 
drunk  too.  One's  enough." 

"Do  I  make  you  drunk,  Jeany?"  Gregory  whispered 
and  leaned  to  the  white  hollow  of  her  throat.  But  Jean 
suddenly  dodged  under  his  arms  and  stood  off,  laugh 
ing  at  him. 

"All  right.     But  I'll  make  you  answer  me  later." 

The  color  ran  under  Jean's  skin  and  then  Gregory 
laughed. 

"But  I  am  so  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  Jean.  I've 
got  to  take  it  out  in  something." 

"So  am  I."  They  were  now  in  step  again.  "I  missed 
you  terribly."  Jean  paused  and  added,  looking  off 
over  a  brown  field  to  the  right.  "You're  lots  better 
at  drawing  than  at  writing,  Gregory.  You  didn't  tell 
me  a  thing.  How's  Puck  and  all  the  wobbly  row  of 
Christian  Scientists?" 

"You  ought  to  have  seen  her.  She  did  her  best,  but 
Lady  Jane  hasn't  the  right  kind  of  eyes  and  they 
wouldn't  close."  He  bubbled  over  in  amusement.  "You 
can't  speak  to  Divine  Mind  with  your  eyes  open,  it 
seems,  and  so  Puck  has  to  stay  out." 

Jean  visioned  Margaret  going  "into  the  silence," 
for  evidently  she  belonged,  and  wondered  which  of  the 
wobbly  columns  she  was. 

"Is  everybody  in  it?" 

"Everybody.  It  was  a  regular  epidemic.  If  I  had 
stayed  up  there  another  week,  First  Principle  would 
have  got  me  sure." 

Suddenly  Gregory  realized  that  they  were  talking 
about  Puck  and  Margaret  and  his  life  in  that  other 
world.  He  wondered  how  it  had  begun,  but  before  he 
could  think  back,  Jean  was  asking: 

"I  suppose  that  means  an  end  of  economics  and 
uplift  generally?  I  imagine  Divine  Mind  isn't  a  thing 
one  shares  with  garbage  or  child  labor." 


298          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Hardly.  'Full  realization'  is  a  terribly  absorbing 
state." 

It  was  strange  to  be  talking  like  this  to  Jean.  But 
it  was  a  relief.  He  had  always  felt  that  Jean  under 
stood,  but  it  was  nice  not  to  have  to  think  ahead  al 
ways,  to  loosen  the  curb  once  in  a  while. 

"Better  than  Montessori  or  garbage  anyhow." 

"Heaps." 

They  spoke  no  more  of  Puck  or  Margaret  but  both 
felt  that  something,  somewhere,  had  changed.  What 
had  seemed  perfect  before  was  a  little  more  perfect 
now. 

Gregory  told  her  of  the  plans,  the  final  week  of  work, 
and  how  he  had  mailed  them  at  the  last  possible  moment. 

"And  if  I  win,  I'm  going  to  see  that  along  with  the 
valuables  buried  under  the  corner  stone,  goes  a  picture 
of  the  one  who  made  it  all  possible." 

"Who  might  that  be?" 

Gregory  did  not  answer. 

"Me?" 

He  nodded.     His  hand  claimed  hers. 

"I  shall  have  to  have  one  taken  then,  and  I've  never 
had  one  since  I  was  old  enough  to  rebel." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't.    I'm  going  to  draw  it  myself." 

"What  will  I  look  like?  Please  don't  make  me  in  two 
sections,  like  Mary." 

"You're  like  this."  Gregory  sketched  a  tower.  It 
was  the  square  Roman  tower,  but  the  top  was  blurred. 
Jean  pointed  to  the  blur. 

"What  is  that?" 

"That  is  a  ray  of  sunshine." 

"Silly,"  Jean  whispered,  and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX 

THE  dead  year  was  buried  in  a  flare  of  gold  and 
scarlet.      For  a  little  while  the  gray  sky  hung 
low  over  the  earth,  and  chill  winds  blew  through  the 
empty  world.     Then  the  gorgeous  dead  season  was  for 
gotten  and  winter  settled  in  earnest. 

Jean  laid  away  the  memory  of  summer.  Again  she 
met  Gregory  in  the  tea-room  and  they  were  happy  in 
the  isolation  of  the  alcove.  On  Saturdays,  when  it 
snowed  too  heavily  for  tramping,  they  went  to  matinees 
and  sat  through  many  driveling  plays.  They  rarely 
spoke  of  Margaret,  but  often  of  Puck,  and  now  that 
this  ghost  was  no  longer  hidden  Jean  was  glad  of  the 
hot,  lonely  nights  after  Gregory's  going.  There  was 
nothing  that  could  hurt  because  there  was  nothing 
unknown. 

The  old  feeling  of  power  ran  high  in  her.  She  was 
rapidly  centering  public  interest  in  her  work.  Com 
pared  to  the  mighty  tree  which  she  and  Mary  had  pic 
tured  in  moments  of  enthusiasm,  the  Congress  was  a 
tiny  root,  but  it  was  striking  deep  and  in  good  soil. 
Jean  was  happy.  She  came  sometimes  to  meet  Gregory 
so  radiant  that  even  he,  who  had  seen  Jean  in  many 
radiant  moods,  was  startled. 

"You  look  like  a  Gloucester  fishing  boat  under  full 
sail,"  he  said  once,  when  Jean  came  hurrying  up  late 
for  a  matinee. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  that  you  flatter." 

"But  a  Gloucester  boat  is  the  finest  thing  that  floats. 
It  has  wonderful  lines,  and  when  it  comes  down  the 

bay  with  all  sails  set " 

299 


300          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"But  tearing  along  Broadway  to  get  to  a  theater! 
Besides  it  sounds  horribly  overpowering.  Doesn't  the 
thing  ever  sink?" 

"Never." 

Between  the  acts  Gregory  drew  a  Gloucester  boat 
and  Jean  insisted  that  she  was  going  to  pin  it  up  in 
her  room  where  she  could  see  it  on  waking  and  get 
the  conceit  knocked  out  of  her  for  the  day. 

But  in  the  mornings  when  she  woke,  warm  under  the 
blankets,  with  the  sharp  air  pricking  her  face,  she 
liked  to  lie  looking  at  it  until  she  could  hear  the 
whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging  and  feel  the 
heave  of  the  sea  under  the  keel.  Standing  in  the  prow, 
she  and  Gregory  went  out  to  sea,  leaving  behind  the 
echoes  of  a  waking  world,  the  banging  of  doors,  the 
rattle  of  the  elevator,  the  running  of  bath  water  from 
the  apartment  across  the  light-well,  the  whir  of  coffee- 
grinders,  gearing  the  world  to  working  strength  for 
another  day.  Her  own  power  to  slip  away  on  these 
trips  with  Gregory  amused  Jean  and  she  wondered  if 
Martha  felt  the  same  physical  sense  of  cutting  loose, 
and  going  out  into  space,  when  she  left  her  body 
crouching  in  the  last  pew  and  went  up  to  talk  to  God. 

Christmas  and  New  Year  passed  and  February  came 
in  a  black  rage  of  cold,  that  exhilarated  or  depressed 
to  the  breaking  point.  It  depressed  Gregory  and  he 
came  to  the  office  one  morning  of  black  cold,  late  in 
February,  convinced  of  the  uselessness  of  all  things. 
Nothing  mattered,  neither  happiness  nor  pain.  If  one 
did  manage  to  seize  a  little  happiness,  it  was  only 
an  interlude.  What  was  the  good  of  a  few  moments  of 
exhilaration  and  the  sense  of  personal  power,  when  it 
went  before  you  could  make  it  really  yours? 

Gregory  threw  the  mail  about  on  his  desk  and  lit 
his  pipe.  He  felt  old.  He  tore  open  the  envelopes 
and  sorted  the  contents  and  knew  that  he  was  going 
to  go  on  doing  this  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Margaret 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          SOI 

had  been  exasperatingly  cheerful  this  morning,  and  as 
Gregory  recalled  the  gentle  sweetness  of  her  voice  as 
she  had  said,  when  she  kissed  him  good-by :  "There  is 
all  the  success  and  prosperity  we  want  right  now, 
dear,"  he  tore  open  the  last  envelope  so  violently  that 
the  letter  within  was  torn  in  half.  The  incident  loosened 
the  tension  and  Gregory  laughed  at  his  own  childish 
ness  as  he  laid  the  pieces  together  and  read  them. 

He  read  them  once.  Then  he  read  them  again.  He 
looked  round  at  the  walls,  the  floor,  the  water-cooler 
in  the  corner,  and  read  it  again.  He  got  up  and 
opened  the  window.  The  freezing,  air  rushed  in  and, 
after  a  moment,  the  world  adjusted  itself.  Things 
stopped  spinning  and  came  out  of  the  blur,  but  still 
the  impression  persisted  that  it  was  a  joke.  Gregory 
brought  the  two  pieces  of  the  torn  letter  to  the  open 
window  and  read  them  for  the  fourth  time. 

He  had  won  the  Chicago  contest.  He  had  covered 
paper  with  lines  and  figures  and  sent  it  a  thousand  miles 
away,  long  ago,  before  the  leaves  turned.  He  had  never 
let  himself  really  hope  and,  for  days  together,  had 
forgotten  all  about  it.  Even  Jean  had  not  mentioned 
it  for  weeks.  The  thought  of  Jean  steadied  him.  Jean 
had  always  said:  "You  will  win."  She  had  never 
doubted,  or,  if  she  had,  had  hidden  it  under  a  seeming 
faith  that  had  been  a  comfort,  even  if  he  had  not  al 
ways  shared  it. 

Gregory  reached  for  the  telephone.  How  should  he 
tell  her?  Should  he  read  the  letter  itself,  or  keep  her 
guessing?  To  be  kept  guessing  made  Jean  angry  and 
he  did  it  sometimes  to  tease  her.  Gregory  stood  with 
his  hand  on  the  receiver,  composing  a  beginning.  But 
he  would  have  to  get  to  the  point  some  time  and  he 
could  hear  Jean's:  "Oh,  Gregory!"  Then  they  would 
go  out  somewhere  and  tramp  for  miles  in  the  pitiless 
cold,  because  it  would  be  absurd  even  to  try  to  go 


302          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

through  the  day's  grind.     Gregory  took  the  receiver 
from  the  hook. 

Slowly  he  hung  it  up  again.  He  went  back  and  sat 
down  at  his  desk.  After  a  few  moments  he  got  up 
mechanically  and  closed  the  window. 

He  had  won  the  contest.  He  was  no  longer  the 
fairly  successful  architect,  bitter,  in  lonely  moments,  at 
forgotten  dreams.  He  was  "made."  Everything  had 
changed  the  moment  he  tore  the  letter  in  anger  at 
the  sameness  of  things.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
that.  Nothing  would  be  the  same  any  more.  He  would 
have  to  live  in  Chicago.  The  building  would  take 
several  years  and  he  would  have  to  be  on  hand  all  the 
time,  if  he  was  to  get  all  there  was  to  it.  He  would 
have  to  leave  Jean.  He  would  no  longer  be  able  to 
ring  her  up  when  he  wanted  to.  There  would  be  no 
more  long  walks.  No  more  dusky  hours  at  the  little 
French  roadhouse,  hours  when  the  need  of  parting 
drew  them  so  near  together.  Jean  would  no  longer  be 
there  in  the  background  of  his  life,  so  that  he  always 
felt  that  he  could  reach  out  and  touch  her. 

Gregory  jammed  his  pipe  between  his  teeth  and  be 
gan  walking  up  and  down.  Was  there  never  a  spot  in 
life,  never  one  short  hour  that  was  perfect?  He  saw 
the  future  that  might  have  been,  had  he  and  Jean 
belonged  legally  to  each  other.  Love,  success,  ac 
complishment.  He  and  Jean — and  Puck. 

Gregory's  face  was  drawn  when  he  sat  down  at  his 
desk  again.  He  drove  his  mind  through  the  day's  work 
as  if  it  had  been  a  slave. 

At  four  he  closed  his  desk  and  went  to  meet  Jean. 
She  was  already  at  their  table,  sitting  partly  turned 
to  watch  a  group  in  the  large  room  beyond.  She  was 
smiling,  and  when  she  caught  sight  of  him  the  smile 
deepened. 

"Do  look  at  that  old  peacock  over  there.     I  have 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  303 

been  watching  her  for  the  last  five  minutes  and  she's 
never  stopped  preening  once." 

He  had  come,  still  uncertain  how  he  was  going  to 
tell  Jean,  and  she  asked  him  to  look  at  an  old  woman. 
But  he  turned  and  then  he  laughed  too. 

"Well,  what's  happened  exciting  to-day?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  Nothing  that  will  surprise  you 
terribly." 

Jean  put  down  the  teapot.  "Gregory  Allen,  out 
with  it!" 

Gregory  seized  the  alternative  of  banter,  which  had 
not  occurred  to  him  before. 

"If  I'm  bursting,  as  you  so  impolitely  suggest,  it 
must  be  terribly  important,  and  if  it's  terribly  im 
portant  you — you  ought  to  guess  it,"  he  finished 
lamely. 

"Now,  Gregory,  don't  tease.  Besides,  I  haven't  an 
ounce  of  sense  left.  I've  been  struggling  with  a 
Tammany  politician  until  I'm  limp.  What  is  it?" 

Gregory  took  the  cup  she  was  holding  to  him.  He 
felt  that  as  long  as  the  cup  was  in  transit  a  choice 
was  left  open.  But  once  it  was  beside  his  plate,  he 
would  be  obliged  to  say,  in  the  only  way  he  had  been 
able  to  frame  it  at  all:  "I've  won  the  contest,  and  I 
have  to  go  and  live  in  Chicago.  They  want  me  there  to 
talk  over  some  slight  changes  by  the  middle  of  March 
and — I  might  as  well  stay  on,  because  I'm  going  back 
there  to  live  anyhow." 

"Gregory,  don't  be  silly.  Please,  what  is  it?  I 
know  it's  good,  because  your  nose  is  wrinkling  up  at 
the  corners." 

"It  is  good."  Gregory  put  down  the  cup.  "Fve 
won  the  contest." 

The  old  peacock  cackled  a  shrill  note  and  Gregory 
heard  her  say:  "Just  fancy,  at  her  age,  a  deep  pink, 
my  dear,  I " 

"Gregory — my  dear  .  .  ." 


304         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

The  blood  rushed  to  Gregory's  eyes  so  that  Jean 
blurred  to  something  white  and  shining,  near  but  im 
possible  to  touch.  He  looked  down. 

"I  shall  have  to  go  to  Chicago.  They've  asked  me 
to  be  there  by  the  middle  of  March." 

"Of  course.  Why,  I'd  want  to  take  the  next  train 
and  rush  out,  whether  they'd  asked  me  or  not.  Oh, 
Gregory!  I  always  knew  it  but — I  feel  all  wiggly 
inside." 

Her  hands  moved  to  him  across  the  cloth  but 
Gregory's  did  not  come  to  meet  them. 

"But  I  shall  have  to  live  there,  Jean,  for  good ;  for 
several  years  anyhow.  It  will  mean  so  many  things. 
Here  I  should  only  be  'that  fellow  who's  building  the 
Auditorium  out  in  Chicago.'  I'm  not  young.  I've  got 
to  get  it  all  now,  every  scrap  of  it.  I've  got  to,  Jean. 
I've  got  to !" 

Afterwards,  Jean  knew  that  in  that  moment  she 
crossed  a  line  and  left  something  of  herself  behind 
forever.  But  now  it  must  be  the  same  as  it  had  always 
been,  until  she  was  alone.  If  she  yielded  an  inch,  she 
would  go  plunging  down  into  the  emptiness. 

"You  do  see,  don't  you?"  Gregory's  voice  pleaded 
for  her  courage,  but  she  did  not  answer,  and  he  hurried 
on. 

"If  there  were  any  other  way,  .  .  .  but  there  isn't. 
It  will  lead  to  all  kinds  of  things.  I've  got  to  be  there. 
Don't  you  see,  dear?" 

Why  did  he  keep  on  saying  that,  over  and  over,  as 
if  she  were  a  child?  Why  did  he  sit  there,  looking  into 
his  plate,  as  if  he  were  hurting  her  only  and  against 
his  will?  Jean  drew  her  hands  back  into  her  lap. 

"Jean,"  he  whispered,  "Sweetheart,  don't  make  it 
hard." 

"I'm  not  going  to.  After  all,  you  know, — Chicago's 
only  eighteen  hours  away." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          305 

He  looked  up.  "Well,  I'll  be  damned!  Do  you 
know,  Jean,  I  never  thought  of  that?" 

And  he  had  not.  It  had  seemed  so  final,  such  a  com 
plete  upheaval  of  the  present  that  he  had  pictured  no 
thread  running  to  the  future.  It  would.  Of  course 
it  would.  Why  shouldn't  it?  Jean  would  be  the  same. 
He  would  be  the  same.  Each  had  his  work.  Their 
meetings  would  be  farther  apart,  but  freer.  He  would 
never  have  to  leave  Jean  because  he  had  promised 
to  be  home  at  a  certain  hour,  nor  invent  explanations 
for  Sunday  tramps.  In  a  way  it  would  be  more  perfect, 
not  less.  And  as  soon  as  he  had  things  going  he  would 
come  back  for  a  few  days.  Later  he  could  come  for 
longer.  In  summer,  if  he  had  a  vacation,  he  would 
spend  it  with  Jean. 

"Jean,  I'm  coming  straight  round  this  table  and  kiss 
you." 

"No,  don't." 

But  he  was  already  there  beside  her,  and  under  pre 
text  of  adjusting  the  curtain,  kissed  her  quickly.  Jean 
wanted  to  strike  him.  Then  he  was  back  in  his  own 
place,  talking  again.  All  the  first  joy  of  his  success 
rushed  over  him.  Jean  felt  it,  the  hidden  power  that 
she  had  fanned  with  her  belief  and  love.  It  was  burn 
ing  away  her  own  forces  and  Jean  felt  cold. 

They  had  a  second  serving  of  tea.  The  rooms 
emptied.  Gregory  was  still  talking,  rushing  away  be 
yond  her  reach. 

It  was  almost  seven  when  she  threw  her  crumpled 
napkin  on  the  table  and  rose. 

"I've  simply  got  to  go.  Besides  we  could  never  get 
it  all  talked  out,  if  we  stayed  until  midnight." 

"I  know.  I  feel  like  a  kid  parading  his  bag  of  tricks. 
I  believe  I've  been  standing  on  my  head  for  the  last 
hour.  Have  I,  Jean?"  He  was  near,  helping  her  on 
with  her  coat.  His  fingers  touched  her  cheek.  "Why 
didn't  you  set  me  right  end  up  with  a  thump?" 


306         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Oh,  I  adore  small  boys  on  their  heads.  I — I  al 
ways  want  to  do  it,  too."  Jean  wondered  why  he  did 
not  grip  her  shoulders  and  shake  her  back  to  con 
sciousness,  but  he  only  laughed  and  they  went  out, 
past  the  groups  of  pretty  waitresses  resting  now  in  the 
empty  room. 

It  had  turned  warmer  and  snow  was  falling  in  great 
white  flakes. 

"I  believe  I'll  walk.  I'm  not  going  home  to  dinner 
anyhow."  Her  courage  was  gone.  She  could  not  go 
down  into  that  stifling  Subway,  talk  nothings  above 
the  roar  of  the  train,  feel  Gregory  close  among  all  those 
strangers. 

"But  it's  going  to  be  a  regular  blizzard.  Look! 
It's  getting  thicker  every  minute." 

Jean  turned  up  her  fur  collar.  "I  don't  mind. 
Maybe  it's  the  last  blizzard  we'll  have.  I  always  wallow 
in  the  last  blizzard.  It's  a  kind  of  rite." 

"Well,  then,  if  I  can't  stop  you  .  .  ." 

They  were  standing  so  close  that  Jean  could  feel  his 
warm  breath  on  her  face.  Muffled  figures,  bent  against 
the  driving  snow,  pushed  by  them  and  disappeared  into 
the  black  hole  of  the  Subway  entrance.  Automobiles 
shot  noiselessly  through  the  whirling  whiteness.  The 
world  itself  had  changed. 

"To-morrow  then  about  four?" 

"No,  I  can't  to-morrow.  I've  got  a  meeting.  Fri 
day." 

"All  right."  Gregory  held  out  his  hand,  but  Jean 
raised  her  muff  to  keep  off  the  driving  flakes  and  only 
smiled  across  it. 

She  went  back  to  the  office.  They  had  all  gone. 
There  was  a  note  tacked  to  the  lid  of  her  desk  and 
Jean  read  it.  She  tore  it  up  and  threw  it  into  the 
waste-basket  but  some  of  the  pieces  fell  upon  the  rug 
and  she  bent  to  pick  them  up  carefully.  She  opened 
a  window,  and  covered  one  of  the  typewriters  that  had 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          307 

been  left  uncovered.  Then  she  telephoned  to  Martha 
that  she  would  not  be  home  to  dinner.  Martha  urged 
her  not  to  work  too  late  and  Jean  hung  up  the  re 
ceiver. 

Now  she  was  alone,  utterly  alone,  with  the  thoughts 
she  had  beaten  back. 

Gregory  was  going  away.  He  was  going  out  of 
her  life  for  months  at  a  time.  Three  short  weeks  and 
it  would  be  as  it  had  been  before  his  coming — empty, 
work-filled  days.  Jean  bowed  her  head  on  the  desk. 

"You  fool,  you  fool,  you  helped  to  do  it." 

She  had  been  so  glad  to  give  and  give  and  give. 
Never  to  falter  in  her  faith,  or  let  his  courage  drop 
below  the  standard  she  had  set  for  it.  He  had  needed 
her  and  now  he  did  not  need  her  at  all. 

Jean  slipped  to  the  floor  and  clutched  the  cushion 
of  the  chair. 

"Don't  let  me  feel  like  this.  Don't  let  me,"  she 
begged,  but  there  was  no  answer.  The  reasonable  ma 
chine  of  her  universe  held  no  God.  It  ran  itself. 

When  she  was  sure  that  Martha  would  be  asleep, 
Jean  went  home. 

During  the  next  two  weeks  they  saw  no  more  of 
each  other  than  usual.  Jean  was  busy,  and  Gregory 
had  to  leave  things  in  order  for  Benson,  who  was  to 
take  on  the  office.  Besides,  it  kept  up  the  fiction  of 
there  being  no  big  change.  But  on  Tuesday,  the  day 
before  he  was  to  leave,  Jean  did  not  go  to  work. 

It  was  a  day  of  sparkling  sunshine  and  hard  snow, 
packed  firm.  They  went  into  the  country.  They  talked 
of  little  things,  rested,  made  snowballs  and  glided,  hand 
in  hand,  over  the  ice  of  a  small  pond.  It  was  a  day 
like  many  they  had  had. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  they  stopped  at  the  French 
roadhouse.  There  were  no  other  guests,  and  Madam 


308         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Cateau  lumbered  forward  in  her  felt  slippers  to  greet 
them  as  old  friends. 

"It  is  a  long  time  that  you  do  not  come.  I  think 
you  forget  me.  Then  I  remember  and  say — But  the 
chicken  they  do  not  forget.  Me,  yes,  but  not  the 
chicken.5'  She  shook  with  laughter  and  waggled  her 
great  red  forefinger  under  Gregory's  nose.  "I  am 
right?  Yes?  The  chicken  you  do  not  forget.  Two 
plates  it  was.  Three,  maybe?" 

"Three  at  least.  I  wouldn't  swear  tha,t  it  wasn't 
four." 

"And  to-night  I  have  the  same,  with  the  mushrooms. 
Why  do  I  make  it  this  morning?  It  is  not  the  right 
day.  Le  bon  Dieu,  maybe  ?" 

She  waddled  off  and  Jean  took  a  table  close  to  the 
fire. 

It  was  impossible  that  they  were  doing  this  for  the 
last  time.  The  fire  burned  with  a  deep  glow.  Outside 
the  bare  trees,  ladened  tyith  snow,  creaked  in  the  wind 
that  came  creeping  with  the  dark  from  hidden  places. 
In  the  kitchen  Madam  Cateau  scolded  the  waiter. 
Dishes  rattled  and  finally  the  perspiring  Gustave  came 
running  with  the  soup.  It  was  rich  and  thick,  and 
across  the  table,  so  near  that  she  could  see  a  tiny 
black  speck  on  Gregory's  white  collar,  he  was  eating  it, 
smiling  at  her  between  spoonfuls,  his  face  damp  with 
the  soup's  heat  and  the  reaction  from  the  long  walk 
in  the  cold. 

When  dinner  was  almost  through,  Madam  plodded  in 
again. 

"The  same  room?  Yes?  Perhaps  a  smaller  one  is 
warmer." 

"No.  The  same.  Make  a  good  fire.  It  will  be  all 
right." 

They  drank  the  coffee  in  silence  and  smoked,  listening 
to  the  woman's  feet  plopping  on  the  floor  above.  It 
was  quiet  in  the  kitchen  now.  A  loosened  shutter 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          309 

creaked  and  ashes  fell  softly  in  the  grate.  Upstairs 
the  door  closed.  Madam  came  thumping  down  and 
they  heard  her  settle  with  a  grunt  into  her  chair  by 
the  parlor  stove. 

They  went  upstairs.  The  room  was  just  the  same. 
They  might  have  been  away  only  an  hour.  The  same 
colored  print  of  Napoleon  stared  above  the  dresser; 
the  same  stiff,  white  tidies  covered  the  chair  seats. 
The  same  red  and  white  counterpane  spread  over  the 
bed,  with  its  nosegay  of  red  and  white  embroidered 
roses  in  the  exact  center.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
half  down,  but  below,  through  the  spotless  panes,  the 
field  stretched  bare  and  silent  under  a  clean  young 
moon.  Gregory  went  over  and  pulled  down  the  shades. 

Jean  took  the  plush  rocker  that  Gregory  dragged 
to  the  hearth.  He  sat  on  the  floor,  his  head  against 
her  knees,  and  together  they  listened  to  the  breath 
ing  of  the  fire,  the  whispering  wind,  and  the  branch 
scraping  on  the  glass.  Gregory  drew  Jean's  hands 
down  and  held  them  against  his  lips. 

The  little  noise  outside  died  in  the  throb  within. 
His  lips  pressed  hot  in  her  palms.  With  a  sob,  Jean 
bent  and  drew  him  into  her  arms. 

In  the  morning  they  went  silently  back  to  the  city 
while  it  was  still  early.  The  wind  had  risen  in  the 
night  and  blown  the  last  snow  from  the  branches.  The 
trees  cut  thin  and  black  in  the  new  day. 

Gregory  was  to  come  back  in  May. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN 

SPRING  was  late,  but  when  it  came,  it  came  with  a 
rush.  In  a  day,  the  trees  swelled  in  buds  and 
blades  of  grass  pricked  the  frozen  earth.  Jean  woke 
one  morning,  late  in  April,  to  the  feeling  of  a  new 
force  in  the  world  and  in  herself.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  been  walking  through  a  tunnel,  and  now,  un 
expectedly,  stepped  into  the  light.  Time  had  some 
how  slipped  its  leash;  it  no  longer  strained  behind  but 
ran  forward.  Jean  jumped  out  of  bed  and  went 
through  the  morning  exercises  that  she  had  neglected 
for  weeks.  Raising  and  lowering  herself  on  her  toes, 
she  drew  in  deep  breaths  of  the  spring  air  and  with 
every  breath  the  last  two  months  receded,  the  future 
brightened,  until,  her  whole  body  glowing,  Jean  came 
to  a  final  halt,  planted  firmly  on  both  feet. 

She  entered  the  dining-room  humming,  so  that 
Martha,  who  was  shirring  eggs  in  the  kitchen,  poked 
her  head  through  the  swing  door,  as  if  she  expected  to 
see  a  stranger. 

"Why,  Jean!" 

"Why,  mummy  I" 

Martha  smiled.  "All  the  problems  in  the  universe 
must  be  solved  this  morning." 

"Not  exactly.  But  I  confess  they  don't  seem  quite 
so  hopeless.  I  guess  it's  the  spring.  Who  could  be 
altogether  miserable  on  a  morning  like  this?  In  the 
spring  tra  la !" 

Martha  went  back  to  the  eggs.  Such  a  sudden 
change  of  mood  was  beyond  her,  for  it  was  weeks  since 
Jean  had  come  humming  to  breakfast  and,  although 

310 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          311 

Martha  had  said  nothing,  she  had  worried.  But  there 
had  been  nothing  to  worry  about,  since  Jean  could  hum 
because  the  sun  shone  and  the  earth-smell  came  through 
the  open  windows.  Martha  wondered  why  intelligent 
people  gave  way  to  moods,  when  they  must  know  what 
a  little  thing  in  the  end  would  dispel  them. 

At  the  office  Jean  found  a  letter  from  Gregory.  It 
was  the  longest  she  had  had  and  the  writing  of  it  had 
stretched  over  a  week. 

"It's  the  only  way  to  do,"  Gregory  wrote,  "because 
if  I  don't,  things  pile  up  to  tell  you  until  there  are 
so  many  I  can't  tackle  them  all.  Sometimes  I  want 
to  get  right  on  the  train  and  come  over,  when  something 
very  good  happens.  And  it's  just  the  same  when 
something  bad  happens,  so  you  see  I  want  you  pretty 
much  all  the  time." 

At  this  point,  Jean  rang  for  Josephine  Grimes  and 
told  her  there  would  be  no  dictation  ready  until  eleven. 
When  Josephine  had  gone,  Jean  locked  the  door. 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is  silly.  I  have  to  be  sensible 
enough  the  rest  of  the  time." 

Jean  came  back  to  the  desk  and  read  and  re-read 
Gregory's  letter  until  she  felt  that  they  had  been  to 
gether  through  the  days  of  its  writing.  They  were 
interesting  days,  filled  from  morning  until  night  with 
new  impressions  and  new  people. 

"At  first  it  felt  queer  and  unreal,  to  have  millionaire 
pork  packers  and  mayors  and  things  like  that  con 
sulting  my  convenience.  I  felt  about  the  way  Puck 
does,  just  before  Galatea  comes  to  life.  Not  that  I 
want  to  convey  that  a  pork  packer  is  like  a  Greek 
statue.  It  felt  like  this " 

Here  followed  a  marginal  drawing  of  himself  stand 
ing  before  a  group  of  pedestals  at  various  angles  of 
motion,  but  the  flagstone  on  which  he  stood  was 
anchored  at  the  four  corners  with  the  words,  I  did  wvn 
the  contest. 


312         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  too  cocky  about  winning,  as 
if  I  had  done  it  all  by  myself,  when  it  was  you,  more 
than  half.  Yes,  it  was,  and  you  needn't  smile  as  I  am 
positive  you  are  doing,  and  insist  it  was  all  my  great 
ability.  Of  course  I  have  ability,  tons  of  it.  Does  that 
satisfy  you?  But  when  I  look  back  now  on  the  hope 
less,  dreamless  creature  you  rescued,  I  want — well,  I 
never  claimed  to  be  any  good  at  words,  and  even  draw 
ing  fails  me  here.  I  want  you  close.  I  want  your 
arms  round  me  and  that  glorious  cool  hair  hiding  all 
but  your  eyes.  Why  do  you  come  so  often,  dear,  just 
at  dawn,  and  wake  me  that  way,  as  you  did  that 
first  morning  at  Morrison's?  It  was  just  about  a 
year  ago,  wasn't  it?  Maybe  that's  why  I've  been 
thinking  of  them  lately,  or  maybe  it's  because  you 
came  every  morning  last  week.  You  shameless, 

brazen "  Here  was  the  figure  that  he  usually  drew 

instead  of  writing  her  name,  the  Roman  tower  with  the 
shaft  of  sunlight  across  the  top. 

The  division  for  that  day  stopped  here  and  the  next 
was  about  some  changes  in  the  plans  that  he  had 
decided  to  make.  The  description  was  brief  and 
technical  but  Jean  knew  the  old  design  so  well  that 
she  could  reconstruct  it  without  an  effort.  Evidently 
he  had  been  interrupted,  for  he  broke  off  short  and 
when  he  began  again  it  was  about  Puck.  Puck  was 
delighted  with  Chicago  and  as  far  as  he  could  judge 
it  was  because  she  would  never  again  have  to  be  nice 
to  Squdgy. 

"I  believe  Squdgy  was  your  Dr.  Fenninger  and  my 
Amos  Palmer  to  her.  I  hadn't  any  idea  that  she  really 
disliked  him  so  much.  Funny  little  entities  children  are, 
changing  right  under  your  eyes  every  minute.  Some 
times  she  looks  like  this  and  the  next  day  she's  this." 

Jean's  lips  quivered.  How  closely  he  must  observe 
Puck!  It  hurt  in  a  way  and  yet  it  made  her  very 
tender,  too. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          313 

There  was  no  direct  mention  of  Margaret  but  in 
the  last  division,  written  the  day  before,  Gregory  said 
that  she  need  not  think  New  York  was  doing  every 
thing.  Chicago  had  an  institution,  a  group  rather, 
whose  motto  was  The  Ultimate  End. 

"So  what's  the  good  of  fiddling  with  any  little  by 
products  of  social  uplift  or  religion?  Fascinatingly 
logical,  isn't  it?  You  dive  straight  at  The  End.  It's 
the  weirdest  yet,  a  lot  more  simple  than  garbage  or 
the  Divine  Mind." 

And  Jean  could  see  Margaret,  slim  and  blonde  and 
graceful,  diving  to  The  Ultimate  End. 

There  was  only  one  sentence  more. 

"From  the  way  things  look  now,  I  believe  I  can 
make  it  before  the  fifteenth.  So  'put  your  house  in 
order/  " 

Jean  folded  the  letter  and  laid  it  in  the  drawer  with 
the  others.  Then  she  called  Miss  Grimes  and  dictated 
steadily  for  two  hours, 

Ten  days  later,  Jean  took  down  the  receiver  to  hear 
Gregory's  familiar :  "Hello !  You  see  I  made  it." 

"So  I  see.     But  where  are  you?" 

"At  the  Grand  Central,  where  you  will  be  in  about 
ten  minutes — unless  you  want  me  to  come  over." 

"No.     I'll  come  down." 

Afterwards  they  laughed,  but  at  the  time  there  had 
seemed  nothing  else  to  say. 

Gregory  stayed  three  days  Two  of  his  business  ap 
pointments  and  one  of  Jean's  took  part  of  their  time, 
and  made  it  impossible  for  them  to  go  to  Morrison's 
as  Jean  had  hoped  they  would  be  able  to  do.  But  she 
tried  not  to  think  of  it,  and  held  firmly  to  what  they 
had. 

During  these  two  days  the  feeling  Jean  had  so  often 
experienced  in  the  past,  of  having  to  beat  through  an 
outer  covering  to  get  at  the  real  Gregory  underneath, 


314         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

was  gone.  At  moments,  Jean  felt  as  if  some  subtle 
atomic  process  had  taken  place,  regrouping  the  ele 
ments  of  the  man,  without  changing  them  in  their 
nature,  but  re-combining  them  in  such  a  way  that  the 
effect  produced  was  quite  different.  But  it  was  not  a 
permanent  feeling,  or  rather,  it  was  true  only  at 
times.  In  the  close  hours  of  the  second  afternoon, 
which  they  spent  at  Madam  Gateau's,  there  was  no 
room  for  analysis  in  the  content  that  held  them,  and 
Jean  felt  that  Gregory  had  never  been  away  at  all. 
But  coming  back,  he  told  her  of  a  possible  commission, 
the  first  that  had  come  through  his  new  connection,  and 
Jean  felt  the  difference  again  sharply.  And  simply 
because  it  was  a  change,  Jean  resented  it  until  her  sense 
of  justice  and  humor  conquered.  She  had  always 
known  and  believed  Gregory  had  it  in  him  to  do  big 
things  and  now  that  he  was  proving  it  she  had  a  queer 
feeling  of  hollowness  inside. 

"You're  going  to  be  disgustingly  successful, 
Gregory.  You  ooze  it  already." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  really  act  conceited?"  He 
asked  it  with  such  desire  to  be  answered  honestly  that 
Jean  laughed. 

"I  didn't  say  that.  Of  course  you  don't.  But  you — 
let  me  see  how  to  put  it.  Here,  give  me  a  pencil,  maybe 
I  can  draw  it.'* 

Gregory  watched  with  a  grin  while  Jean  constructed 
figures  unknown  to  geometry. 

"Words  are  clumsy,  I  grant,  but  those  things ! 
Which  is  the  'is'  and  which  the  'was'?" 

"That's  the  'was.*  It's  one  of  the  Egyptian 
pyramids,  with  curlycues.  Those  are  the  moods  when 
the  spirit  inside  got  away  from  you." 

"And  the  'is'?" 

"That's  a  geometric  eagle." 

"With  the  curlycues  become  audible  in  one  horrible 
screech." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          315 

"That  isn't  his  mouth  open.  It's  his  under-beak 
where  the  pencil  slipped." 

"That's  better.  You  had  me  quite  scared."  Gregory 
took  back  the  paper  and  pencil  and  Jean's  hands  with 
them.  "For  which  I  am  going  to  punish  you." 

Again  and  again,  in  the  soft  dusk^  under  the  budding 
elm,  he  kissed  her,  and  then  he  held  her  close  and  they 
did  not  speak  at  all. 

When  they  began  walking  again  they  were  serious. 

"You  see,  Jean,  you  don't  really  know  how  it  feels, 
because  you  never  quit  on  the  game  as  I  did.  I  did 
honestly  believe  that  it  was  all  over  for  me  and  that  I 
was  never  going  to  get  anywhere.  I  felt  like  a  little 
cog  in  a  huge  machine,  whose  place  could  be  taken 
by  any  other  little  cog  just  as  well.  That's  a  dam 
nable  feeling.  I  felt  at  the  mercy  of  whatever  power 
kept  the  machine  going." 

"But  we  are  all  cogs,  in  a  way." 

"Look  out.     You'll  be  an  Ultimate  Ender  yet." 

"Is  being  a  cog  the  ultimate  end  of  everything?" 

"Something  like  it.  We  are  all  specks  in  a  cosmos 
that's  more  complicated  than  a  Chinese  puzzle.  You 
reincarnate  and  reincarnate  for  millions  of  cycles,  and 
when  you  get  through  you're  only  a  sphere  with  a 
face  in  the  middle.  Did  you  know  that?  Your  spiritual 
you,  when  it's  been  perfected  through  a  billion  aeons 
is  going  to  be  a  kind  of  gas  bag  with  features  in  the 
center.  The  latest  discoveries  in  all  occultism  prove 
it." 

Jean  laughed.  "I  believe  I'll  stop  off  half  way.  The 
Ultimate  End  doesn't  appeal  to  me." 

"I'll  stop  off  in  that  place,  too, "  Gregory  did 

not  finish,  and  Jean  did  not  ask  him  what  he  had  been 
going  to  say.  Hand  in  hand  they  walked  along,  until 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  brightly  lit  station. 

"It's  been  a  glorious  afternoon,  hasn't  it?" 

Jean  nodded. 


316         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

On  the  next  night,  which  was  the  last  of  Gregory's 
stay,  they  had  dinner  at  The  Fiesole.  Jean  did  not 
want  to  go  there,  but  when  Gregory  proposed  it,  she 
could  think  of  no  good  reason  and  so  they  went. 
Gregory  filled  their  glasses,  and  across  the  raised  rim 
of  his,  smiled  to  Jean. 

"Amos  Palmer!" 

"To  the  Turkish  lanterns  and  Japanese  windbells !" 

And  Rachael.  Should  she  say  it?  It  was  such  a 
long,  long  time  ago.  Jean  did  not  know  whether 
Gregory  remembered  that  the  night  he  had  told  her  of 
Amos  and  the  pergola,  was  the  night  they  had  gone 
to  Rachael's.  What  a  big  thing  it  had  seemed  at  the 
time  and  now  it  was  so  little.  Was  the  course  of  all 
human  relationships  just  that — a  series  of  steps,  from 
one  desperate  need,  to  a  temporary  peace,  and  then 
on  to  another  need?  Did  one  never  come  to  a  lasting 
peace,  a  flat,  restful  spot  with  no  more  steps?  Or  did 
one  just  step  off  at  last  into  nothingness? 

"What  is  it?  Are  you  yearning  for  Japanese  wind- 
bells  and  an  electric  pergola?" 

"Was  I  looking  like  that?" 

"Rather  abstracted,  Jeany.  And "  Gregory  was 

on  the  point  of  adding — "and  this  is  our  last  night," 
but  changed  it.  They  both  knew  that  well  enough. 
So  he  said:  "And  besides  it's  rude." 

"I  was  just  wondering  whether  she  has  outgrown 
the  pergola  yet  or  whether  Amos  is  still  happy." 

"I  don't  know.  I  saw  in  some  paper  not  long  ago 
that  an  English  Duke  was  one  of  the  guests  on  a  yacht 
ing  trip  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Amos  Palmer.  From 
what  I  know  of  the  Duke's  reputation — Good-by  wind- 
bells  and  maybe  Amos." 

They  kept  the  talk  at  this  level  until  they  had  almost 
finished  dinner.  Then,  in  spite  of  their  efforts  to  hold 
the  mood,  it  slipped  from  them.  Brief  silences  fell, 
which  were  hastily  dispelled  as  soon  as  either  one  could 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          317 

think  of  something  to  say,  sufficiently  unimportant. 
But  they  came  again,  until  at  last  Jean  made  no  effort 
to  escape  them,  and  Gregory  sat  rolling  breadcrumbs  in 
the  old  way  and  frowning  into  the  tablecloth. 

He  did  not  know  when  he  could  come  again.  The 
months  ahead  were  going  to  be  busy  ones  and  he  would 
have  to  snatch  an  interlude  when  he  could.  And  yet, 
going  without  the  definite  point  of  a  return,  left  these 
days  unfinished.  He  wished  Jean  would  ask  him. 

But  Jean  said  nothing.  If  Gregory  knew  he  would 
tell  her  and  if  he  did  not  know  she  did  not  want  to  be 
told  that  this,  for  which  she  would  wait  alone,  week 
after  week,  as  she  had  waited,  was  to  be  left  to  chance, 
thrust  into  an  unfilled  moment. 

"Let's  walk  to  the  station,  up  Second  Avenue  and 
across.  I  haven't  been  down  this  way  for  ages." 
There  was  an  hour  yet  before  train  time  and  Jean  knew 
that  she  could  not  sit  here,  filling  the  lessening  hour 
with  nonsense  and  silences. 

"All  right."  Gregory  signaled  the  waiter  and  paid 
the  bill.  He  was  disappointed,  but  what  had  he  ex 
pected?  He  did  not  know.  He  only  knew  that  he  had 
not  thought  of  spending  their  last  hour  sauntering 
among  pushcarts.  But  if  that  was  enough  for 

Jean And  he  succeeded  so  well  that  Jean's  heart 

grew  heavier  and  heavier  and  she  kept  back  the  tears 
only  by  a  desperate  effort. 

But  when  the  reality  of  separation  detached  itself  in 
a  concrete  crowd,  in  long  lines  waiting  before  the  ticket 
windows,  the  starter  booming  the  trains  through  a 
megaphone,  and  the  red-cap  who  hurried  up  for  Greg 
ory's  grip,  Jean's  pride  slipped  beyond  her  hold.  She 
stared  ahead  and  her  lips  trembled.  His  arm  slipped 
under  hers  and  drew  her  closer. 

"Jean,"  he  whispered.  "Jean,  dear."  His  fingers 
closed  about  her  bare  wrist  above  the  glove. 

The  hand  of  the  huge  clock  jerked  itself  forward 


318         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

another  minute.  And  there  was  nothing  to  say.  Less 
than  if  they  had  been  strangers.  With  another  jerk, 
the  hand  touched  ten.  Gregory  dropped  Jean's  arm. 
Without  a  word  he  hurried  through  the  gate  and  it 
closed  behind  him. 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-EIGHT 

THE  summer  passed.  Once  in  September  Gregory 
came  on  a  flying  business  trip  and  left  the  next 
day. 

Winter  closed  early  with  a  jealous  grip,  and  Jean 
worked  as  even  she  had  never  worked  before.  She 
managed  committees,  lobbied  bills,  spoke  at  meetings 
and  drove  her  plans  through  all  opposition. 

Dr.  Mary  was  busy  with  her  final  thesis.  Evening 
after  evening  Jean  and  Martha  sat  reading  quietly 
as  they  had  done  in  the  old  days,  and  Martha  was 
happy. 

Just  before  Christmas  Gregory  came  unexpectedly, 
solely  to  see  Jean.  They  went  out  to  the  French  road- 
house  where  he  had  ordered  dinner  by  a  wire  to  Madam 
Cateau. 

It  was  a  Christmas  dinner.  The  table  was  already 
laid  in  their  old  room,  when  he  threw  open  the  door 
and  ushered  Jean  in  with  a  flourish. 

"Merry  Christmas." 

He  closed  the  door  and  would  have  taken  Jean  in 
his  arms,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  stopped  him. 

"Why,  Jean,  what  is  it?" 

For  Jean  stood  staring  at  the  table  and  fighting 
desperately  not  to  cry. 

"I— thought " 

Jean  turned  and  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

"What  is  it,  dear?     Can't  you  tell  me?" 

Jean  fought  fiercely  to  stop,  but  she  wanted  to 
shriek,  to  laugh,  to  let  down  utterly,  to  sob  out  all 
the  hurt,  the  suppression  of  the  last  ten  months,  close 


320         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

in  Gregory's  arms.  And  all  the  time,  at  the  back  of 
her  brain,  her  burning  eyes  pressed  into  Gregory's 
coat,  she  saw  the  gay  little  table  with  the  wine  glasses 
and  the  white  chrysanthemums  and  the  ridiculous  tur 
key,  with  the  foolish  paper  frills  about  its  brown  legs. 

Gregory  held  her  gently,  stroking  her  hair  and  won 
dering  what  had  happened.  For  he  had  expected  Jean 
to  be  as  surprised  and  delighted  as  he  had  been  when 
the  idea  occurred  to  him. 

Slowly  Jean's  nerves  relaxed  and  the  sobs  lessened. 
She  must  be  happy  now,  while  they  were  together.  In 
a  few  hours  Gregory  would  be  gone  and  if  she  spoiled 
these  hours  there  would  be  nothing,  not  even  the  mem 
ory,  in  the  months  ahead. 

Jean  raised  her  head  and  smiled.  Gregory  smiled 
too  with  a  warm  little  feeling  deep  inside  for  this  sud 
den,  unexpected  weakness. 

"Whatever  was  the  matter,  Jean  girl?" 

"Nothing — only — I  was  wishing — we  could  have — 
Christmas  and — we've  got  it." 

Gregory  laughed  so  that  down  in  the  kitchen  Madam 
Cateau  heard  and  laughed,  too. 

"Of  all  things  to  cry  about !  Because  you  get  some 
thing  you  want.  I'm  glad  it  doesn't  affect  me  that 
way."  He  punctuated  the  words  with  kisses  and  then, 
lifting  her  bodily,  carried  her  across  the  room  and  put 
her  down  at  the  table,  a  little  out  of  breath  with  the 
effort. 

"You're  no  feather-weight,  Lady  of  My  Dreams.  Or 
maybe  I  am  hungry." 

It  was  a  good  dinner  and  Gregory  enjoyed  it,  al 
though  they  had  to  hurry  at  the  end  to  get  back  to  the 
city  in  time  for  him  to  catch  his  train. 

Jean  waited  behind  the  iron  grill  until  the  train 
pulled  out  and  she  could  no  longer  distinguish  Gregory 
waving  his  hand  from  the  Observation.  Alone  she 
turned  into  the  months  ahead. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          321 

Weeks  of  waiting,  snatching,  losing,  waiting  again. 
Years  broken  by  flying  visits,  some  longer,  some 
shorter.  No  calm,  no  peace,  no  sureness.  Their  lives 
would  touch,  run  close  for  a  few  hours,  a  few  days  at 
most,  and  part.  No  foothold,  no  smallest  spot  their 
own,  no  door  they  could  close  against  every  one  but 
each  other.  And  it  would  always  be  like  this.  The 
happiness  of  the  moment  must  be  clutched,  until  the 
force  of  the  holding  almost  strangled  it  to  death,  just 
as  to-day's  dinner  had  done. 

It  would  go  on  and  on.  Their  meetings  would  grow 
more  and  more  the  result  of  circumstances,  be  wedged 
in  the  unfilled  places  between  the  world's  demands. 

She  would  fill  her  days,  fuller  and  fuller,  to  keep  the 
thought  of  Gregory  away.  She  would  do  bigger  and 
bigger  things,  and  people  would  speak  more  and  more 
admiringly  of  her.  While  she  struggled  not  to  wonder 
when  Gregory  was  coming  again! 

Or  he  might  never  come  again.  An  accident  in  the 
lives  of  either  might  separate  them  forever.  Gregory 
might  be  called  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  she  could 
not  follow.  He  would  go  with  Margaret  and  Puck  and 
she  would  remain  behind. 

They  would  grow  older.  They  would  hold  to  the 
small,  common  interests  of  each  other's  lives  by  an 
effort.  A  little  while,  and  they  would  no  longer  talk 
of  this  person  and  that  without  elaborate  explanations. 
Gregory's  little  sketches  of  people  she  did  not  know 
would  grow  meaningless.  Their  lives  would  run  two 
paralleled  streams,  mingling  only  in  the  moments 
snatched  together.  And  what  would  these  moments 
hold?  No  shared  interests,  no  mingled  hopes.  Their 
hands  and  lips  would  cling,  on  to  the  very  end,  be 
cause  something  in  Gregory  would  always  call  and 
something,  beyond  her  brain  or  will,  would  always 
answer. 

The  white  face  of  a  clock  peered  at  Jean  through 


322         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

the  snow.     It  was  almost  twelve.     After  all,  she  would 
have  to  go  home  some  time. 

The  holidays  passed  and  a  new  year  began.  Jean 
took  long  walks  through  the  snow  and  believed,  some 
times,  when  she  came  back  tired  and  hungry,  that  she 
had  left  the  tangle  behind.  There  were  moments  when, 
whipped  by  the  cold  to  an  almost  drunken  ecstasy  of 
health,  the  old  sureness  returned.  Her  love  and  Greg 
ory's  was  clean  and  big,  like  the  open,  eternal  as  the 
earth. 

But  the  snow  went. 

It  grew  warm  again  on  the  upland,  cool  in  the  hol 
lows,  as  on  the  days  she  and  Gregory  had  stolen  two 
springs  before.  Jean  battled  to  hold  her  peace  but 
it  slipped  from  her  as  the  grass  pricked  the  earth  again 
and  buds  swelled  on  the  branches. 

She  proposed  a  national  campaign  to  awaken  inter 
est  in  other  states,  and  link  the  women  of  the  country 
in  a  common  bond.  But,  while  she  listened  to  the 
applause  that  greeted  her  first  suggestion,  she  heard 
beyond  it  the  wailing  graphaphone  wrapping  the  re 
bellious  Mattie  and  her  mother  in  sensuous  peace.  She 
worked  until  far  into  the  night  on  this  new  project, 
but  the  old  apple  trees  rustled  in  the  orchard  and  dogs 
barked  from  farm  to  farm  across  the  fields.  She  went 
to  special  luncheons  to  meet  important  people,  but 
Uncle  John  was  always  there,  eating  his  porridge  in 
the  blue  willow  bowl.  And  at  night,  when  she  lay 
alone  in  the  dark,  too  weary  with  the  crowded  days  to 
sleep,  there  was  always  a  baby's  dark,  fuzzy  head  and 
wet,  groping  lips.  Jean  tried  to  push  it  away,  but  it 
would  not  go.  In  the  morning,  when  the  coffee-grind 
ers  set  the  world  in  motion,  it  was  always  there,  smil 
ing  and  pummeling  with  its  fists. 

And  in  the  end,  Jean  let  it  have  its  way. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          323 

It  came  and  went  with  her,  at  home,  in  the  office 
and  to  Mary's. 

Jean  thought  of  Amelia  Gorman  and  the  gray  house 
on  the  windy  hills.  If  she  had  a  child,  nothing  ever 
again  could  shut  her  off  from  the  current  of  life.  It 
was  the  only  real  thing  in  all  the  world.  It  was  the 
past  and  the  future  down  to  the  end  of  time. 

Jean  weighed  the  price.  A  child  of  hers  and  Greg 
ory's  against  a  national  congress  of  strangers.  Any 
one  of  a  dozen  other  women  could  manage  that,  but 
her  job,  her  very  own  job,  no  one  else  could  do.  Be 
fore  the  miracle  of  her  own  power  Jean  was  humble. 

A  strange  new  softness  came  over  her,  so  that 
Martha  wondered,  but  Mary  referred  to  it  outright, 
one  night  during  her  last  week  in  New  York  when  they 
sat  talking  before  the  open  window  as  they  had  not 
done  for  months,  with  Madame  la  Marquise  budding  to 
youth  before  them. 

"Jean  Herrick,  I  wish  to  goodness  you'd  stop  look 
ing  like  a  large  blonde  angel,  just  about  to  fly  beyond 
mortal  ken.  It  makes  me  feel  a  hundred  years  old,  and 
as  if  I  hadn't  accomplished  a  single  thing  the  whole 
time  I've  been  here." 

Jean  laughed.  "I'm  sorry  that  I  look  like  such  a 
foolish  thing  as  a  large,  blonde  angel,  but  I'd  rather 
you  felt  a  hundred  than  I,  Mary." 

"But  I'm  not  stuck  on  it  myself,  Jean." 

"Then  don't.  It's  all  in  the  mind,  anyhow.  No  one 
needs  to  grow  old." 

"Piffle.  There's  a  lot  of  rubbish  talked  like  that  these 
days.  There's  no  need  to  grow  grumpy  and  useless, 
but,  after  all,  we  can't  turn  back  the  hands  of  the 
clock.  We  do  grow  out  of  one  possibility  into  an 
other — and  they  don't  come  back  either." 

Jean  shrank  a  little,  as  if  Mary  had  touched  the 
glowing  spot  inside* 


324          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Then — live  every  possibility  up  to  the  hilt  and  take 
the  next." 

"Logical  and  doubtless  true.  But  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  look  so  much  as  if  your  next  was  an  ascent 
straight  into  Heaven.  It  makes  me  feel  old — and  a 
little  lonely,  Jean." 

"Don't,  Mary;  please  don't.  I  don't  want  you  to 
feel  like  that." 

"Oh,  it's  not  as  bad  as  all  that.  But,  really,  Jean, 
I  never  did  think  of  the  difference  in  our  ages  until 
lately.  We  always  seemed  to  be  walking  along  at  the 
same  gait,  but  these  last  few  weeks  you  look  as  if  you 
had  been  doing  it  out  of  politeness,  and  if  you  really 
wanted  to  you  could  pick  up  your  skirts — and  run 
forever." 

"I  do  feel  like  that,  Mary ;  exactly  as  if  I  had  wings." 

Dr.  Mary  looked  up,  but  the  joke  on  her  lips  did 
not  come.  There  was  a  short  pause  and  then  Jean 
said: 

"Mary,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  that  I  be 
lieve  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long  time." 

And  she  did,  looking  out  over  the  Park  while  Dr. 
Mary  sat  silent. 

Jean  went  back  to  the  beginning,  to  the  sense  of  a 
fuller  world  because  Gregory  was  in  it.  Calm  and 
unashamed,  she  spared  nothing. 

"I  was  glad  when  you  went  away,  Mary.  It  was 
wonderful  having  this  place,  like  a  home  all  our  own. 
And  then  you  came  back."  Jean  smiled,  thinking  of 
the  tragedy  of  the  discovered  vegetables,  and  how  mis 
erable  she  had  been. 

She  told  of  sending  Martha  away,  of  Gregory's  going 
to  Maine,  and  of  her  own  readjustment  toward  Mar 
garet  and  Puck ;  of  Gregory's  winning  the  contest,  his 
removal  to  Chicago  and  of  the  long  months  since,  try 
ing  to  hold  intact  the  beauty  of  their  love,  through 
hurried  meetings,  flying  trips,  moods  of  forced  gayety 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          325 

clutched  tight  against  the  force  of  circumstance  always 
tearing  them  apart.  And  the  terrible  white  light  of 
logic  illuminating  the  end. 

"It  will  come,  Mary;  it  must.  I  can  see  it  like  a 
wall,  standing  there  at  the  end  of — one  year,  two,  five 
perhaps.  But — it  will  end." 

For  the  first  time  Jean's  voice  shook.  Nor  was 
Mary's  steady  as  she  said,  after  a  long  pause : 

"But   you've  had  it,   Jean.     Nothing  can   take  it 


away." 


Jean  shook  her  head.  "I  know,  Mary.  But  that's 
like  the  rubbish  that's  talked  about  not  growing  old. 
It's  the  theory  of  those  who  have  never  had  a  thing — 
that  the  memory  of  it  can  be  enough." 

Dr.  Mary  winced  and  lit  a  cigarette.    "Maybe  it  is." 

"When  you've  had  a  thing  and — it  goes — you  have 
two  pains,  because  the  memory  and  the  happiness  hurts 
as  much  as  not  having  it  any  more.  And  then — there's 
a  third — the  nothingness  of  everything  else.  That's 
the  worst,  that  awful,  dead  emptiness,  where  nothing 
counts  and  you  just  go  on  because  there's  not  even 
the  will  to  stop.  And  the  terrible,  empty  future." 

"But  he  isn't  dead,  Jean.  And  you  have  your  work. 
You  can  write,  and  even  if  you  can't  be  always  together, 
there " 

"I  know.  Those  things  are  a  lot  when  they're  a 
part,  but  they're  nothing  at  all  when  they're  all.  I 
have  less  even  than  Margaret  has.  Yes,  less  even  than 
that.  She  has  the  shell  and  I  have  the  kernel,  but  the 
kernel  has  to  have  its  own  shell  or  it  dies.  No  mar 
riage  certificate  in  the  world  could  make  her  really  his 
wife,  but  no  blindness  in  the  world  can  keep  our  love 
what  it  is  really — like  this.  I  don't  believe  that  society 
invented  marriage  because  a  man  wanted  to  keep  one 
woman  as  his  property  or  because  women  wanted  to 
be  supported.  They  were  just  groping  blindly  to 


326         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

keep  love  alive,  to  bind  it  fast,  that  biggest,  freest 
thing  in  all  the  world,  and  keep  it  safe  for  itself." 

"Well,  they've  made  a  sad  mess  of  it." 

"I  know.  They  didn't  mean  to  build  a  prison,  but 
they  have.  Some  day  there  will  be  no  state  or  church 
locking  people  in — but  there  will  always  be  walls 
around  real  love — like  ours.  It  makes  its  own  and 
grows  stronger  and  stronger  behind  them.  And  when 
it  can't,  it  just  withers  and  dies  and — there's  nothing 
left.  I  can't  have  it  that  way,  Mary,  I  can't.  I  can't 
watch  it  grow  less,  and  I  know  it  will — and  I  can't 
shut  it  out  forever.  There  is  only  one  way,  Mary — I 
want  a  child — terribly." 

Dr.  Mary  dropped  her  cigarette  so  that  it  smol 
dered  into  the  rug  and  burned  a  small,  black  hole. 

"But,  Jean " 

"I  know,  Mary.  I've  thought  it  out — everything, 
every  single  thing.  I  won't  lose  my  job,  because,  of 
course,  I  shall  give  it  up.  I'll  go  away.  I  shall  have 
to  lie,  right  and  left  and  all  the  time.  I  shall  lie  ta 
the  world  and  I  shall  lie  to  mummy.  That  will  be  the 
hardest,  lying  to  mummy.  But  it  would  kill  her,  and 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  mummy,  but  I  am  not  going  to 
let  her  stop  my  life,  withhold  the  biggest  thing  in  it. 
No  one  has  a  right  to  do  that.  It  is  my  life  and  my 
job,  Mary;  the  job  of  every  woman  when  she  really 
loves  a  man.  And  nothing  else  matters." 

The  little  doctor  gulped  twice,  and  rapped  out: 

"Then  go  ahead  and  have  it." 

Jean  slipped  to  the  floor  and  laid  her  head  on  the 
other's  knees. 

"Mary,  do  you  think — I'm — very " 

"No,  Jean,  I  don't.     I'm — I'm  green  with  envy.'* 

The  tears  ran  down  the  doctor's  cheeks  and  she 
made  no  effort  to  wipe  them  away. 

After  a  while  Jean  looked  up. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          327 

"I'm  going  to  write  to  Gregory  and  tell  him.  I 
don't  want  to  see  him — till  he  knows." 

Dr.  Mary  snuffled.     "Here  endeth  the  Congress." 

Jean  smiled.  "Mary,  a  dozen  other  women  can 
run  the  Congress  and  I  don't  give  a  whoop  who  goes 
on  with  it.  Josephine  Grimes  can  take  it  over  if  she 
likes." 

Through  the  tears  the  blue  eyes  twinkled. 

"Jean,  you're  the — most  glorious — fool  in  the  world 
— and  I'd  like  to  shake  you." 


CHAPTER    THIRTY-NINE 

HOW  do  you  like  it?"     Margaret  turned,  looking 
back  over  her  shoulder  to  Gregory.     Her  fair 
hair  and  white  shoulders  rose  from  a  swathing  of  cloudy 
fabric  that  showed  now  palest  pink,  now  mauve,  now 
faintly  blue. 

"It's   ripping!" 

Waltzing  slowly  the  length  of  the  dusky  room,  she 
moved  with  a  flower  lightness,  a  spirit-like  unreality 
that  touched  the  artist  in  him. 

"You  look  like  an  orchid  come  to  life  in  the  depths 
of  a  forest." 

Margaret  stopped  and  swept  him  a  curtsey. 

"Thanks.  To  affect  one's  own  husband  like  that 
is  an  achievement." 

Gregory  smiled.  This  new  manner  of  Margaret's, 
half  flirtatious,  half  cynical,  amused  him. 

"Then  what  will  happen  to  old  Burnham?  He'll  be 
downright  dizzy." 

"Don't  be  coarse,  Gregory.  I  don't  like  it.  Be 
sides,  you  know  I  do  it  for  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  jealous.     Not  a  bit." 

"You  may  laugh,  but  it  is  good  business.  Weren't 
you  asked  to  join  The  Meadow  Club  after  our  last 
dinner?" 

"I  was." 

"Well?" 

"I  thank  you."  Gregory  doffed  an  imaginary  hat 
and  swept  a  bow.  "What  have  you  in  mind  this  time?" 

"Don't  be  silly.  Besides,  it's  every  hostess's  duty 
to  look  as  well  as  she  can." 

328 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          329 

"You've  done  that.  Maybe  Burnham  will  resign  in 
my  favor  and  I'll  be  president  of  the  Architectural  So 
ciety  of  America." 

"There's  no  reason  that  you  shouldn't  be  some  day, 
if  you  go  about  it  right.  It  has  to  have  a  president, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Absolutely  essential."  Gregory  chuckled  and 
switched  on  the  lights.  In  this  mood  of  helping-wife 
Margaret  was  delightfully  nai've. 

"Well,  I'm  doing  my  part.     If  you  do  yours " 

"There's  no  knowing  to  what  heights  I  may  not 
climb." 

"But  you  can't  get  anything  without  some  trouble 
in  this  world.  You've  got  to  work  for  it,  in  every 
way."  Margaret  spoke  as  if  she  were  enunciating  a 
divine  decree,  and  moved  with  stately  coldness  to  the 
door. 

"Very  well.  I'll  work  to-night.  You've  put  me 
next  to  Phyllis  Henshaw,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes.  And  it's  Gothic  Cathedrals.  She's  mad 
about  them  lately.  That  ought  to  be  easy  for  you." 

"I  can  take  that  trick  with  my  eyes  shut." 

"But  don't  make  her  feel  that  you  know  more  about 
it  than  she  does.  Let  her  talk.  She  loves  to." 

"I'll  remember." 

"And  please  get  dressed.  The  Phillips  always  come 
too  early  and  you're  not  even  shaved  yet." 

Margaret  floated  away  and  Gregory  went  into  his 
dressing  room. 

This  was  to  be  the  last  and  most  important  of  the 
Allen  dinners  which  Margaret  had  begun  early  in  the 
winter.  The  guest  of  honor  was  to  be  James  Burnham, 
President  of  the  Architectural  Society,  with  eight  lesser 
luminaries.  It  would  be  a  success  because  these  din 
ners  of  Margaret's  always  were  a  success.  Sitting 
beside  some  eminent  man,  whose  conversation  she  could 
not  follow,  Margaret  reached  her  climax.  As  wife 


330         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  companion,  she  was  one  being,  as  hostess  another. 
In  the  act  of  presiding  over  a  dinner  table,  Margaret 
found  a  clarity  of  vision  that  kept  her  in  safe  paths. 
Men  whom  Gregory  admired  and  for  whose  good 
opinion  he  was  anxious,  never  refused  an  invitation  to 
one  of  Margaret's  dinners. 

As  he  dressed  Gregory  smiled  to  think  what  a  chasm 
lay  between  the  first  dinner  arid  this.  Graceful  and 
surefooted,  Margaret  had  scaled  the  social  cliffs,  pick 
ing  with  unerring  instinct  the  right  spots.  The  dinner 
to-night  was  to  mark  the  apex. 

And  it  did.  Looking  about  the  table,  at  the  soft 
lights,  the  exquisite  flowers,  the  well-gowned  women  and 
alert  men,  Gregory  felt  that  only  a  sketch  of  the  Taj 
Mahal  would  do  it  justice.  While  he  talked  Gothic 
Cathedrals  he  drew  one  mentally  and  sent  it  to  Jean. 
The  subdued  abundance,  restrained  success,  the  perfect 
balance  of  personal  accomplishment  and  concealed  con 
sciousness  of  it,  rose  in  delicate  spires  and  minarets 
against  a  background  of  inexhaustible  possibility, 
Eastern  in  its  opulence. 

On  Margaret's  right  sat  James  Burnham,  white- 
haired  and  charming,  but  knowing  to  a  hair's  weight 
what  it  meant  for  any  hostess  to  secure  him.  Yankee 
in  the  shrewd  appreciation  of  his  own  value,  Southern 
in  the  charm  of  its  concealment,  and  Latin  in  his  atti 
tude  to  all  women,  the  famous  man  bent  to  Margaret 
with  undivided  attention.  Margaret  vibrated  in  har 
mony  to  his  note.  Her  eyes  sparkled  and  she  had  the 
manner  of  a  beautiful  woman  withholding  an  advance 
she  perfectly  understood  and  had  full  power  to  recipro 
cate.  Gregory  looked  on  amused,  while  he  followed  in 
structions  and  let  Phyllis  Henshaw  rhapsodize  among 
the  Gothic  arches.  He  speculated  about  Margaret  as 
if  she  were  a  stranger,  and  wondered  why  men  with 
wives  like  that  were  ever  jealous  of  them. 

Coffee  was  served  in  the  living-room,  a  method  of 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          331 

Margaret's  for  redistributing  her  guests.  By  the  new 
adjustment,  Phyllis  Henshaw  fell  to  James  Pelham 
and  Gregory  could  not  help  smiling  at  Margaret  when 
he  caught  her  eye.  Skill  like  this  amounted  to  an  art. 
From  time  to  time  he  glanced  at  the  white-haired  pres 
ident,  listening  with  a  mechanical  smile  to  the  Gothic 
ravings  and  wondered  whether  any  man,  except  per 
haps  a  Jesuit  diplomat,  could  have  achieved  his  pur 
pose  better.  At  the  first  opportunity,  Gregory  edged 
his  own  partner  to  the  rescue,  and  then  realized  that 
he,  too,  was  weaving  a  pattern  of  the  evening  to  Mar 
garet's  design.  He  had  an  almost  irresistible  impulse 
to  call  across  the  room  to  her: 

"Is  this  the  way  you  want  it?  Or  have  I  made  a 
mistake?" 

There  was  neither  bridge  nor  music,  and  yet  most 
of  the  guests  stayed  until  almost  twelve.  It  was  even 
a  little  after  before  Phyllis  Henshaw  kissed  Margaret 
effusively  and  assured  her  that  it  had  all  "been  simply 
perfect."  When  the  front  door  closed  behind  them, 
Margaret  dropped  into  a  chair  and  yawned. 

"People  can  say  what  they  like,  but  there's  ab 
solutely  no  other  way  to  do  it.  A  dinner  is  the  only 
thing." 

"Q.  E.  D." 

"But  next  winter  I'm  going  to  do  it  a  little  differ 
ently.  We  won't  begin  quite  so  early  in  the  season — 
now  that  I  know  who's  who.  We  won't  give  more 
than  six  either.  That's  enough  to  cover  all  the  people 
that  really  matter." 

"A  kind  of  inverse  ratio?  In  time,  at  that  rate, 
we'll  have  to  eat  alone." 

"I  suppose  that's  awfully  clever ;  but,  really,  I'm  too 
tired  to  follow." 

Gregory  realized  that  he  was  being  petty.  For  the 
evening  had  been  just  as  much  of  an  accomplishment, 


332         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

in  its  way,  as  Bobby  Phillips'  engineering  miracles  in 
the  Orient,  or  the  Auditorium  itself,  for  that  matter. 

"It  was  all  right,  Margaret,  and  I'm  sure  if  Burnham 
wrote  sonnets  he'd  be  sitting  up  at  this  minute." 

A  dreamy  smile  touched  Margaret's  lips.  "He's 
perfectly  fascinating.  I  don't  wonder  women  faUl 
for  him."  She  moved  toward  the  door.  "I  let  Nellie 
go  to  bed,  Gregory,  so  you  put  out  the  lights.  And 
please  don't  make  your  usual  racket  in  the  morning. 
I'm  all  in." 

Gregory  finished  his  cigar  and  then  went  upstairs. 
He  stopped  for  a  moment  in  Puck's  room  as  he  always 
did.  She  was  sound  asleep.  Lady  Jane  sat  stiffly  on 
a  chair.  Of  late,  Puck  often  forgot  to  take  Lady  Jane 
to  bed.  Puck  was  growing  up.  Gregory  laid  Lady 
Jane  softly  on  the  coverlet  and  tiptoed  out. 

Bunched  on  the  dresser  was  the  last  mail  that  he 
always  had  sent  up  from  the  office  when  he  left  too 
early  to  get  it.  He  tossed  it  aside,  picked  up  Jean's 
with  a  thrill  of  pleased  surprise,  for  Jean  usually  wrote 
once  to  his  twice  and  he  had  not  yet  answered  the  last, 
and  made  himself  comfortable  to  enjoy  it. 

Gregory  read  the  letter  from  the  abrupt  beginning, 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  dear,"  to  the  ending 
"that's  all,"  and  laid  it  down.  There  was  no  haze 
to  be  cleared  away  by  a  second  reading,  no  doubt  of 
Jean's  meaning,  no  possible  misunderstanding.  Into 
the  three  pages  Jean  had  compressed  the  wonder  of 
their  love,  the  nuances  of  its  beauty,  the  impossibility 
of  continuing  like  this.  She  made  no  claims  nor  recog 
nized  any  on  her  own  part.  Only,  she  could  not  go  on. 
She  stated  it  as  simply  as  she  might  have  said :  "I  can 
not  meet  you  to-morrow.  I  have  a  meeting." 

Before  the  simplicity  of  Jean's  mind,  Gregory  was 
helpless.  With  one  clean  blow,  Jean  had  cut  away  all 
the  elaborate  superstructure  of  ordinary  human  inter 
course.  The  scaffolding  was  stark  before  him. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          S3S 

Step  by  step,  Gregory  went  back  over  the  past  year. 
There  had  been  hours  of  longing  that  not  even  his 
work  had  stilled.  Days  when  Jean  had  moved  beside 
him,  enjoying  his  triumphs,  memories  that  had  helped 
him  through  temporary  difficulties.  She  was  always 
there,  more  or  less  vivid,  according  to  his  need.  The 
visits  to  New  York  he  had  planned  weeks  ahead.  The 
Christmas  dinner  he  had  snatched  at  the  risk  of  busi 
ness  loss.  The  perfect  walk  through  the  snow  to 
Madam  Gateau's ;  the  tenderness  of  Jean's  tears ;  the 
gay  meal  and  Jean's  cheery  smile  as  the  train  pulled 
out;  his  pride  in  Jean's  courage;  desperate  moments 
of  his  own  rebellion,  stifled  in  shame  before  her  greater 
strength. 

And  all  the  time,  Jean  had  been  beating  against  this 
"ugliness."  It  had  been  one  thing  to  him,  another  to 
her.  He  did  not  know  her.  Perhaps  he  had  never 
known  her. 

He  went  back  to  the  night  he  had  come  in  with  Puck 
to  find  Jean  standing  by  the  living-room  window,  and 
the  storm  that  had  raged  in  him  through  that  intoler 
able  hour  of  Margaret's  chatter  and  the  need  that  had 
driven  him  to  leave  the  house  with  Jean.  Again 
Gregory  felt  the  silence  of  the  street  about  them,  then 
the  clatter  of  the  taxi  as  it  stopped  at  his  signal ;  and 
the  dizzy  moment  when  Jean  had  said  quietly: 
"Gramercy  Park."  It  was  Jean  who  had  said  it. 
Again  Gregory  felt  the  reverence  and  gratitude  that 
had  stilled  his  passion  through  that  dark,  silent  ride. 

Love  had  meant  to  her  what  it  had  meant  to  him 
and  he  had  gloried  in  her  honesty.  She  had  brought 
back  the  courage  that  the  weary  round  of  years  with 
Margaret  had  almost  killed,  and  kept  it  alive.  She 
had  been  glad  of  his  success.  Again  he  felt  her  leaning 
to  him  across  the  table  and  heard  her  say: 

"It  is  only  eighteen  hours  away." 


334         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

It  was  Jean  who  had  said  it,  just  as  she  had  said: 
"Gramercy  Park." 

And  now  she  said,  just  as  quietly  and  simply:  "I 
can't  go  on." 

Cold  damp  broke  out  on  Gregory's  forehead. 

She  could  not  go  on. 

She  wanted  it  to  stop.  She  would  fill  her  days  with 
out  reference  to  him.  He  would  fill  his  with  no  thought 
of  her.  He  would  make  no  more  flying  trips  to  New 
York.  Never  again.  Not  even  once  more,  unless 

Gregory  rose.  If  he  did  not  get  up  now  and  move 
he  would  always  sit  there,  staring  at  the  three  pages 
covered  with  the  clear  black  writing,  on  the  table  beside 
him. 

Jean  with  a  child.  A  child  of  hers  and  of  himself. 
She  had  weighed  the  price  and  was  willing  to  pay.  The 
fences  that  society  had  put  up,  Jean  was  willing  to 
throw  down.  The  conventions  they  had  scorned  in 
secret,  Jean  would  scorn  openly,  Unconfused  by  all 
the  little  noises  of  the  world,  Jean  heard  the  clearest 
call  and  answered. 

"She  doesn't  realize  what  it  would  mean.    She " 

The  last  sentence  of  the  letter  moved  before  him. 

"I  have  thought  it  all  out,  dear,  and  I  know.  It's 
the  one  thing  against  everything  else,  the  one  thing 
that  counts  against  all  the  things  that  don't." 

Gregory's  chin  dropped  to  his  breast  and  he  walked 
up  and  down  like  an  old  man. 

Jean  with  a  child.  A  child  of  hers  and  his.  Jean 
and  their  child,  alone,  one  thousand  miles  away.  An 
other  human  being,  part  of  himself,  just  as  Puck  was 
a  part. 

Another  Puck.  The  best  of  Jean  and  of  him 
self,  a  fearless  little  Puck,  whom  he  would  see  at  long 
intervals,  scarcely  know,  whom  he  could  not  acknowl 
edge,  but  who  would  always  be  near,  tearing  at  his 
heart,  claiming  his  love.  Gregory's  lips  went  white. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          335 

"My  God,"  he  whispered,  "I  wish  I  had  never  seen 
you." 

Then  he  began  walking  again,  up  and  down,  up 
and  down. 

The  stars  were  white  in  the  morning  sky  when  he 
went  back  and  sat  down  once  more  beside  the  table. 
He  put  the  three  sheets  of  Jean's  letter  carefully  to 
gether  and  tore  them  across  many  times.  Then  on 
a  single  sheet  he  wrote: 

"I  am  not  brave  enough.  I  haven't  the  courage. 
I  cannot  pay  the  price." 

He  took  the  torn  bits  of  Jean's  letter  and  his  own 
and  went  out.  He  dropped  his  into  the  green  box  on 
the  corner.  The  chill  wind  of  dawn  seized  Jean's  and 
carried  them  away. 

He  closed  the  front  door  softly  and  went  slowly  up 
the  stairs,  past  Puck's  door  and  Margaret's,  back  into 
his  own  room.  The  pen  was  still  wet  with  ink.  Greg 
ory  opened  the  window  and  threw  it  into  the  street.  In 
a  few  moments  an  early  milk  wagon  clattered  along  and 
scrunched  it  into  the  dust. 


PART  III 


PART  III 
CHAPTER  FORTY 

ARE  you  sure  you  feel  all  right,  mummy?     You 
don't  look  as  if  you  had  slept  very  well." 

"Nonsense,  dear.  I  slept  at  least  five  hours  straight 
off  and  you  know " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  Napoleon  never  had  more  than 
four  hours  and  Saint  Catherine  or  Winifred  or  some 
body  else  did  mighty  works  on  ten  minutes.  But 
they're  not  you." 

Jean  laid  her  arm  across  her  mother's  shoulders 
and  drew  her  close.  "You  won't  be  silly,  will  you?  If 
you  don't  feel  well  you'll  'phone  me?  There's  noth 
ing  very  special  to-day." 

Martha's  face,  smaller  and  frailer  than  ever,  glowed 
with  love  satisfied,  and  for  a  moment  she  closed  her 
eyes  in  the  old  spirit  of  humble  gratitude.  But  Jean, 
looking  down,  saw  only  the  thin  hair,  white  now,  and 
her  throat  contracted. 

"Jean,  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  all  my  life,  this  last 
year  has  been  waiting  for  me,  one  whole  year,  just 
exactly  as  it  has  been.  Now  that  I  waste  so  much 
time  just  sitting  round,  I  think  of  it  a  lot." 

The  lines  along  the  corners  of  Jean's  mouth  deep 
ened  and  she  looked  old  and  tired.  But  her  voice  had 
the  same  brusque  quality  with  which  she  had  always 
forestalled  any  emotional  demand.  If  the  year  had 
been  wonderful  to  Martha,  it  had  not  been  useless,  and 
Jean  was  grateful. 

339 


340         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Of  course,  if  you  are  trying  to  tell  me,  Martha 
Norris,  that  I  used  to  bore  you  to  death " 

"Don't  be  flippant,  Jean.  You  know  perfectly 
well " 

"There.  That  sounds  more  natural.  I  guess  you're 
all  right.  But  don't  go  and  overdo.  Will  you  promise 
me  that?" 

"I  never  do.    I'm  a  regular  parasite." 

"Well,  it  agrees  with  your  disposition,  so  keep  it 
up."  Jean  bent  and  kissed  her.  "You're  really  much 
nicer  than  you  used  to  be,  mummy.  Pneumonia  must 
be  good  for  the  soul." 

"Got  me  into  line  at  last,  haven't  you?  But  remem 
ber,  even  the  effects  of  pneumonia  wear  off." 

"Then  I'll  take  my  innings  while  they're  going. 
Remember,  if  you  go  to  service  this  afternoon  you 
are  to  call  a  taxi.  Do  you  hear?  You  are  not  to 
take  any  of  those  'nice,  quick  walks'  you  are  so  ad 
dicted  to.  There's  a  wind  like  a  knife  blade  to-day. 
Will  you  promise?" 

"I'll  use  my  judgment,  dear." 

"I  leave  you  in  peace.  You  are  yourself.  I  don't 
believe  you  ever  had  pneumonia.  Mummy,  you've  been 
faking." 

Jean  gave  her  mother  another  quick  kiss,  and  went. 
From  the  street  below,  she  looked  up  and  waved. 
Martha  waved  back. 

But  when  Jean  was  out  of  sight,  Martha  crossed  to 
the  side  table  where  Jean  had  laid  Mary's  letter.  Part 
of  it  Jean  had  read  aloud,  the  first  two  paragraphs 
and  on  from  the  middle  of  the  third  page,  but  the 
part  unread  she  had  returned  to  twice,  and  when 
she  slipped  the  letter  back  into  its  envelope,  Martha 
had  seen  her  hands  tremble.  Martha's  own  hands 
shook  as  she  unfolded  the  pages,  scrawled  with  the 
doctor's  heavy  black  writing,  vigorous  and  violent  as 
Mary  herself. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  341 

"Now  listen,  Jean,  it's  one  chance  in  a  million  and 
you  can  have  it  if  you  want.  I  shall  expire  with  envy, 
but  I've  just  enough  sanity  left  to  know  that  I'm  too 
old.  To  go  to  China  and  organize  a  kind  of  Red 
Cross — Associated  Charities — Relief  of  the  Poor,  with 
trifles  like  directing  the  education  of  feminine  China 
thrown  in,  because,  years  ago,  little  Wong  Lee 
used  our  gymnasium  and  I  treated  him  half  way 
decently!  He  is  now  minister  of  something  or  other 
in  New  China  and  he  throws  this  pearl  at  me.  I  would 
give  twenty  years  of  my  life  to  do  it,  but  I  haven't 
twenty  left,  not  ten  even  of  any  great  use  in  such  a 
big  undertaking.  But  you!  The  old  courage  would 
come  back.  Things  would  be  worth  while  again.  You 

would "  Here  a  word  had  been  scratched,  but 

Martha  bent  long  and  close  over  the  paper  and  at 
last  she  made  it  out.  "You  would  forget." 

After  the  third  effort,  Martha  succeeded  in  folding 
the  sheets  and  getting  them  into  their  envelope.  Then 
she  went  back  to  the  chair  by  the  window  and  sat 
down.  Dampness  came  about  her  lips  and  temples  and 
she  closed  her  eyes. 

It  would  be  a  new  life  for  Jean.     Jean  would  forget. 

Why  did  Jean  need  a  new  life?  Had  this  wonder 
ful  year,  so  full  of  peace  to  Martha,  been  stagnation 
to  Jean?  Had  the  deep  gentleness  and  understand 
ing  which  had  come  to  Jean  been  only  a  masque?  Had 
it  been  possible  only  with  an  outlet  of  confidence  to 
Mary?  What  was  it  that  Jean  was  to  forget?  Back 
and  forth  through  the  last  eighteen  months  Martha's 
memory  went,  gathering  forgotten  looks,  stray 
phrases,  quiet  evenings  when  Jean  lay  on  the  couch 
reading,  evenings  so  full  of  contentment  to  Martha, 
that  she  had  thanked  God  for  each  one. 

Twice  the  maid  came  to  the  door  to  clear  the  break 
fast  table  and  went  back  to  the  kitchen  on  tiptoe. 
The  third  time  Martha  heard  her. 


342         /THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"All  right,  Katy,  you  can  clear  away  now." 

At  twelve  o'clock  Jean  telephoned,  as  the  habit  had 
grown  since  Martha's  illness  in  the  early  winter. 
Martha  assured  her  that  she  felt  all  right  and  would 
go  and  take  her  nap  "as  ordered." 

"Be  sure  you  do.  And  I'll  be  home  early.  It's 
Katy's  afternoon  out,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  I  think  I'll  tell  her  she  can  have  the  evening, 
too,  because  she  wants  to  go  over  to  Montclair  to  see 
her  cousin." 

"But  don't  you  do  a  thing  for  supper.  I'll  stop  in 
at  a  delicatessen." 

Martha  went  back  to  her  room  and  lay  down.  The 
effort  of  answering  had  exhausted  her,  so  that  now  she 
shook  as  with  a  chill,  and  her  heart  thudded  sickening- 
ly.  When  Katy  came  to  call  her  to  lunch,  Martha  did 
not  want  any.  She  heard  Katy  eat  a  hurried  meal  in  the 
kitchen,  clear  the  dining-room  and  go.  After  a  while 
the  perfect  stillness  of  the  house  rested  Martha  a  little, 
and  she  got  up  and  went  into  the  kitchen.  Usually, 
she  enjoyed  these  afternoons  when  Katy  was  gone  and 
she  was  free  to  putter  about  and  make  little  delicacies, 
for  which  Jean  always  scolded  her,  and  ate  with  tre 
mendous  relish.  But  to-day,  Martha  had  to  rest  often 
as  she  made  the  chocolate  cake  that  was  Jean's  favor 
ite,  and  she  did  not  ice  it  at  all. 

In  her  private  office,  Jean  made  her  third  effort  to 
write  to  Mary.  In  the  outer  room  two  typewriters 
clicked  and  from  across  the  hall,  through  the  open 
transom,  she  heard  Jerome  Stuart,  of  the  Men's  City 
Club,  dictating. 

"I  will  take  the  matter  up  with  Mrs.  Herrick  of 
the  Women's  Civic  League,  as  it  seems  to  me  both 
organizations  working  together  can  accomplish  better 
results." 

Mrs.  Herrick  of  the  Women's  Civic  League.     That 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  343 

meant  herself  and  the  eighteen  busy,  empty  months 
since  Gregory's  letter. 

Jean's  hands  dropped  to  the  keys  and  she  sat  look 
ing  down  into  the  street.  The  wind  had  swept  it  al 
most  clean  of  people  and  the  few  who  had  to  be  out, 
beat  along,  muffled  in  clothes,  like  unthinking  bundles 
propelled  against  their  wills. 

"If  only  mummy  could  stand  it.  But  she  couldn't, 
and  she  would  be  so  utterly  miserable." 

Across  the  hall,  Jerome  Stuart  was  talking  again: 

"It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  a  matter  for  women 
rather  than  men.  I  will  refer  the  matter  to  Jean  Her- 
rick  of  the  Women's  Civic  League,  and  can  assure  you 
of  prompt  action." 

Jean  ripped  out  the  paper  and  closed  the  machine. 

"Nothing  in  the  world  is  worth  making  mummy 
miserable  for,  and,  besides,  Mary  would  see  through 
me  in  a  minute,  if  I  wrote  in  this  mood.  She'd  know 
that  I'd  rather  go  to  China  than  do  anything  else  in 
the  wide  world.  Never  to  see  these  streets  again,  nor 
the  river,  nor  the  people.  To  go  where  there  are  no 
memories  unless  I  call  them  up.  But  mummy " 

Jerome  Stuart  was  crossing  the  hall  now,  coming  to 
consult  with  Mrs.  Herrick  of  the  Civic  League.  This 
tall,  quiet  man,  with  his  unshakeable  faith  in  humanity, 
would  look  at  her  with  his  deep  gray  eyes,  eyes  too 
gentle  unless  one  had  seen  them  flash  against  injustice, 
and,  in  a  few  moments,  she  would  find  herself  starting 
some  new  piece  of  work.  Jerome  Stuart  had  done  this 
often  in  the  six  months  he  had  headed  the  Men's  City 
Club,  and  Jean  had  been  glad.  But  to-day  she  wanted 
no  burden  of  another's  enthusiasm  forced  upon  her. 
She  wanted  nothing  except  to  get  away  by  herself. 
She  heard  the  secretary  tell  Jerome  Stuart  that  she 
was  busy  and  she  heard  him  go  back  again  to  his  own 
office  and  close  the  door. 

A  little  before  five  Jean  left.    The  wind  had  reached 


344          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

a  point  of  cold  fury  that  made  it  almost  impossible  to 
breathe. 

"I  do  hope  she  hasn't  gone  to  service,  even  in  a 
taxi."  The  possibility  worried  Jean  all  the  way  home. 
"I  wish  Lent  came  in  the  summer."  As  she  let  herself 
into  the  apartment  she  called  gayly: 

"Hello !" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Oh,  mummy,  it  is  silly.  If  God's  everywhere,  why 
can't  you  talk  to  Him  here?" 

It  was  half-past  five  now,  and,  at  the  latest,  Martha 
would  be  in  by  six.  Jean  put  the  kettle  on  the  gas 
and  the  cold  chicken  and  ham  into  the  ice-box.  The 
chocolate  cake  stood  on  the  lowest  shelf  of  the  pantry. 

"It's  no  good.  I  can  never  change  her.  I  might 
just  as  well  let  her  go  peacefully  on." 

She  turned  the  gas  low  under  the  kettle  and  went 
into  her  own  room  to  take  off  her  things.  The  con 
necting  door  to  Martha's  was  ajar,  and  the  wind, 
whistling  down  the  light-well,  rushed  at  Jean,  striking 
like  a  hand. 

"Whew!"  She  threw  her  things  on  the  bed  and 
hurried  to  close  the  window. 

Sitting  in  the  rocker  by  the  bed,  one  shoe  on,  the 
other  by  her  side,  her  hands  quiet  in  her  lap,  her 
head  back,  tilted  a  little  as  if  listening,  and  with  a 
terrible  smile  on  the  open  lips,  sat  Martha.  Jean 
swayed  on  the  threshold,  and  then  moved  slowly  and 
heavily  toward  the  chair.  The  curtain  blew  in  and 
the  end  flapped  against  Martha's  shoulder.  Jean  put 
it  aside.  Without  a  sound  she  dropped  beside  the 
chair  and  her  arms  closed  about  her  mother.  The 
little  figure  lurched  sideways  and  the  cold  cheek  lay 
against  her  own.  As  cold  and  still  as  the  dead,  Jean 
knelt. 

The  mechanism  of  her  brain  had  stopped,  back  there 
ages  ago,  on  the  threshold.  Her  will,  her  power  to 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM     345 

feel,  had  dropped  into  an  abyss  of  nothingness.  Jean 
knelt,  knowing  that  her  mother  was  dead,  that  she 
had  died  in  the  act  of  getting  ready  for  service,  that 
she  must  have  died  about  three  hours  ago,  while  she 
was  trying  to  write  to  Mary,  that  there  were  many 
things  to  do  and  she  would  have  to  begin  doing  them. 
But  she  could  neither  move  nor  think  of  what  they 
were. 

All  her  life  came  to  this  point  and  stopped.  Tiny 
incidents,  forgotten  to  consciousness,  rose  from  the 
mass  of  memories  piled  upon  them.  They  had  neither 
relation  nor  sequence,  but  tumbled  chaotically  in  the 
void.  Martha  making  a  dress  for  her  doll;  Martha 
on  graduation  day;  Herrick  and  their  Sunday  dinners 
with  Martha ;  Tom  and  Elsie ;  the  months  with  Gregory 
in  which  Martha  had  no  part  and  the  night  she  had 
come  home  to  find  Martha  mending  and  had  been  glad. 
The  two  terrible  weeks  she  had  passed  alone  by  the 
sea,  after  Gregory's  letter.  The  return — Mary  gone 
West  and  Martha  happy  again  in  the  solitude  with 
Jean.  And  the  long  months  since,  when  her  mother 
was  the  realest  thing  in  the  world  and  Jean  had  felt 
the  narrow  binding  bands  of  Martha's  love  and  been 
a  little  comforted. 

Now  the  band  had  snapped  and  she  was  alone. 

Across  the  light-well,  a  woman  put  a  child  to  bed. 
It  knelt  and  said  its  prayers,  just  as  she  had  used  to 
do,  and  afterwards  the  woman  tucked  it  up,  opened  the 
window  and  turned  off  the  light.  The  elevator  clanked 
from  floor  to  floor.  Children  scampered  across  the 
apartment  above.  Dishes  rattled  in  the  kitchens.  Men 
were  coming  home  to  dinner.  The  great  building  was 
vibrant  with  the  sounds  that  mark  the  definite  closing 
of  a  day.  That  small  period  of  finite  time,  man's  work 
ing  day,  was  ended.  But  here,  there  was  no  light,  no 
sound  in  the  still  rooms.  The  small,  intimate  ending 


346          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

of  the  hours  was  lost,  engulfed  in  this  tremendous  end 
ing  of  all  things. 

A  sputtering  noise  broke  on  Jean's  consciousness. 
It  had  been  going  on  a  long  while.  She  laid  the  little 
head  gently  against  the  chair  back  and  rose.  A  strange 
odor  filled  the  apartment.  She  went  out  into  the 
kitchen.  The  water  had  completely  boiled  away  and 
the  solder  had  melted  from  the  kettle.  Jean  turned 
off  the  gas  and  went  back. 

There  were  so  many  things  to  do,  and  now  she 
would  have  to  begin  doing  them.  Death,  the  most 
silent,  private  thing  in  the  world,  necessitated  many 
outward  offices,  the  presence  of  strangers,  an  official 
routine.  Jean  lifted  her  mother's  body  and  laid  it  on 
the  bed.  She  closed  the  parted  lips  and  bound  them. 
Then  she  began  to  undress  her.  Never,  in  her  whole 
life,  had  Jean  done  such  service  for  Martha,  and  now 
it  seemed  as  if,  from  some  vast  distance,  her  mother 
was  watching,  embarrassed  and  reluctant,  so  that 
Jean  felt  awkward  and  ashamed.  One  by  one  she  took 
off  the  garments,  noticing  with  detached  numbness 
the  beautiful  mending  in  Martha's  stockings,  the  neat 
tying  of  the  corset  laces.  Jean  had  never  seen  her 
mother  undressed,  and  the  youthful  quality  of  the  skin 
astonished  her.  She  felt  inhuman,  perverted,  to  notice 
this,  but  the  feeling  ran  only  on  the  surface  of  her 
brain,  as  if  she  had  taken  an  anaesthetic,  strong  enough 
to  deaden  sensation,  but  not  strong  enough  to  kill 
consciousness.  Suddenly  she  recalled  Herrick  passing 
his  fingers  over  the  smooth  satin  of  the  painted  canvas 
and  she  covered  the  little  body  hastily  in  a  white  night 
dress,  as  if  shielding  it  from  stranger  eyes. 

How  small  and  still  she  looked  like  that,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  so  terrible!  A  little  while  before  and  she 
had  been  Martha,  her  mother,  narrow  in  her  beliefs, 
jealous  in  her  love,  full  of  obstinate  faith  and  human 
weakness.  Now  she  was  part  of  the  universe,  of  the 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  347 

terrible  law  of  life  and  death.  What  tremendous 
finality  to  be  centered  in  that  small  body!  And  how 
young  she  looked!  Only  the  white  hair  seemed  to 
have  marked  the  years.  A  few  short  hours  before  and 
Jean  had  felt  her  throat  tighten  at  the  frail  body  and 
the  thin  white  hair.  And  now,  in  a  moment,  Martha 
had  outlived  time,  defied  human  laws.  Age  was  a 
cloak  imposed  by  Time  and  removed  by  Death.  At 
some  distant  spot,  Martha,  young  and  happy,  was 
talking  to  her  God. 

The  mechanical  movement  of  lifting  and  undressing 
her  mother  stirred  Jean's  consciousness,  and  she 
realized  now  that  the  window  was  still  open  and  the 
freezing  wind  blowing  in.  She  reached  for  the  com 
forter  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  drew  it  up.  This 
covering  the  small  body  was  one  of  the  useless,  senti 
mental  things  people  did  with  their  dead.  But  she 
had  no  power  over  her  actions.  Years  of  association 
with  the  flesh  had  created  habits  that  fulfilled  them 
selves  mechanically.  A  lifetime  with  the  shell  of  the 
body  had  given  it  an  existence  of  its  own,  and  although 
the  closed  eyes  and  bound  lips  proved  Martha  beyond 
the  need,  the  very  flesh  and  shape  had  created  demands 
of  their  own. 

Jean  covered  the  body  snugly  and  stood  looking 
down.  With  this,  her  work  was  done.  Never  again 
would  she  do  anything  for  her  mother. 

Jean  shivered  and  then  something  beat  its  way 
through  the  numbness  of  the  last  hours  and  she 
dropped  to  her  knees.  With  her  face  on  the  small, 
still  breast  she  sobbed,  dry,  tearing  sobs  that  ripped 
the  last  eighteen  months  to  shreds  and  buried  her  be 
neath  them. 

She  was  alone  in  the  world.  There  was  no  one  now 
to  consider.  No  need  to  pretend.  No  one  in  the 
whole  writhing  mass  of  humanity  belonged  to  her  nor 
she  to  any  one. 


348          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

The  desperate  emptiness  of  Gregory's  going  rose  in 
a  gaunt  specter  from  the  grave  where  she  had  tried 
to  heap  it  to  stillness  by  the  small  duties  of  loving  and 
caring  for  Martha ;  trying  to  make  up,  out  of  her  own 
realization  of  loneliness  and  pain,  some  of  the  empty 
years  of  her  mother's  life.  Now  the  need  was  over. 
She  would  never  again  have  to  take  a  book  and  pre 
tend  to  read  in  order  not  to  worry  the  patient  figure 
sewing  under  the  lamp.  She  would  never  again  have 
to  take  the  image  of  happy  hours  and  lift  it  from  her 
brain,  that  it  might  not  claim  the  moments  that  were 
Martha's.  There  was  no  need  to  do  anything,  any 
thing  at  all.  She  was  alone,  free  in  a  terrible  freedom, 
alone  in  an  infinity  of  emptiness. 

The  front  door  opened  and  Jean  heard  Katy  come 
down  the  hall  into  the  kitchen.  She  got  up  and  went 
out  and  told  her.  Katy  began  to  cry,  and  although 
Jean  knew  that  Katy  had  been  fond  of  Martha,  there 
was  something  so  officially  appropriate  in  these  in 
stant  tears,  that  Jean  frowned.  Katy  choked  her  sob 
into  a  sniff. 

"If  you  would  make  some  strong  black  coffee.  Katy, 
I  should  like  it."  Then  she  went  into  the  hall  and 
telephoned  to  the  doctor  who  had  attended  Martha  dur 
ing  the  pneumonia  of  the  earlier  winter.  He  lived 
nearby  and  came  in  a  few  moments.  He  pronounced 
it  death  from  heart  disease  and  told  Jean  that  her 
mother's  heart,  weak  for  years,  had  never  recovered 
from  the  strain  of  pneumonia. 

"Did  she  have  anything  special  to  worry  her?  Any 
shock  to-day  ?  Still,  there  was  no  reason  that  it  should 
have  terminated  so  soon." 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"No  special  shock  to-day?" 

"No.  We  live  very  quietly  and  there  would  be  noth 
ing  without  my  knowing  it." 

"Um.     Sometimes  these  things  take  sudden  and  un- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          349 

expected  turns.  There  is  not  always  a  definite  ex 
planation."  He  stopped  as  if  something  more  per 
sonal  and  sympathetic  was  expected  of  him.  Taller 
than  he,  Jean  looked  down  coldly.  He  was  used  to 
women  crying  or  going  into  hysterics,  and  although 
he  was  always  scornful  of  such  procedure,  years  of 
habit  in  meeting  these  emergencies  had  given  him  a 
tactful  gentleness  of  which  he  was  vain.  But  now 
there  was  going  to  be  no  need  for  restoratives  or 
sedatives  and  so  he  took  his  hat. 

"If  there  is  anything  that  I  can  do  to  make  it 
easier,  please  feel " 

"Thank  you.     There  is  nothing." 

When  the  doctor  had  gone,  Jean  drank  the  black 
coffee  that  Katy  brought. 

"Could  I  be  seem'  her,  Mis'  Herrick?" 

Jean  did  not  want  Katy  to  see  her.  But  she  could 
not  refuse,  for  the  feeling  persisted  that  Martha  was 
no  longer  her  mother,  her  own  special  human  property. 
She  was  part  of  the  law  of  life  and  death,  day  and 
night,  the  seasons.  She  had  entered  the  cosmos.  Per 
sonal  preference  was  washed  under  in  this  tide  of  law. 

Jean  heard  Katy  go  into  the  room  and  drop  to  her 
knees.  There  was  a  moment  of  sobbing  and  then 
a  mumbled  prayer.  In  a  few  moments  the  girl  came 
out.  Jean  heard  her  muffled  sobbing  in  the  kitchen. 

"If  you  would  rather  go  home  to-night  you  may, 
Katy." 

"And  leave  you?" 

"Certainly.  I  do  not  mind.  There  is  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of,"  she  added  more  gently. 

"I  know."  Katy  took  advantage  of  the  gentleness 
to  sob  openly.  "The  dead  can't  hurt  us — God  rest 
their  souls — and  such  a  gentle  sweet  lady — but  it  does 
give  me  the  creeps — it  always  done — — " 

"Then,  Katy,  I  would  rather  you  went.     In  fact  I 


350          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

would    rather  be   alone.      You   can   come  early.     Be 
here  by  seven-thirty." 

Jean  went  into  the  living-room.  Martha's  chair 
stood  pushed  back  from  the  window,  as  she  had  left  it 
when  she  had  gone  to  get  ready  for  service.  Her 
glasses  lay  on  the  window  shelf.  Jean  sat  down  in 
the  chair.  In  a  few  moments  she  heard  Katy  tiptoe 
out.  The  streets  were  empty,  except  for  the  wind.  It 
moaned  about  the  corners  of  the  big  building,  shutting 
Jean  in  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  And  beyond  the 
wind,  the  black  river  ran  swiftly  to  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE 

I  AM  the  resurrection  and  the  life." 
Alone  in  the  church,  Jean  sat  upright  in  the 
first  pew.  The  stained  windows,  the  fine  linen  of  the 
young  priest's  cassock,  his  deep-toned  chant,  the  odor 
of  incense,  the  satin-grained  wood  of  the  pews,  the 
exquisite  lace  of  the  altar  cloth,  impressed  themselves 
in  a  setting  warm  and  intimate  for  the  small  gray 
coffin  resting  at  the  altar  rail. 

Jean  sat  dry-eyed,  as  if  she  were  witnessing  a  rite 
in  which  the  priest  and  Martha  had  a  part.  They 
belonged.  She  had  handed  Martha  over  to  this  young 
man,  and  now  he  and  Martha  and  God  were  carrying 
on  some  ceremony.  She  was  an  outsider. 

The  stinging  sweetness  of  the  incense  rose  in  a  blue 
cloud  as  the  priest  incensed  the  coffin.  His  voice 
ceased.  He  looked  inquiringly  toward  Jean.  Alone  in 
the  apartment,  just  before  the  undertaker  had  come, 
Jean  had  kissed  her  mother  for  the  last  time.  But  in 
the  depth  of  the  waiting  silence,  a  need  to  look  once 
more  on  that  restful  little  face  gripped  her,  and  she 
rose  and  went  slowly  to  the  casket.  Against  the  white 
satin  of  the  pillow,  so  lightly  that  even  in  death  she 
seemed  resenting  this  comfort,  Martha  was  resting. 
It  seemed  to  Jean  that  the  eyes  under  the  thin,  veined 
lids  were  quietly  happy  and  that  the  mouth,  so  oddly 
young  now,  smiled.  In  the  beloved  atmosphere  of 
prayer  and  adoration,  Martha  had  gained  conscious 
ness.  Loosed  from  the  flesh,  all  the  emotional  capacity, 
the  power  of  love  and  devotion  and  joy  suppressed 
had  been  freed  at  last  by  the  cessation  of  earthly  cares 


352          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  prejudices  to  express  itself  and  claim  its  own.  In 
the  interval  of  rest  below  the  altar,  Martha  had  come 
to  life,  a  life  in  which  the  body  had  no  part. 

Jean  touched  the  thin  hair  on  the  temples.  "You're 
happy,  dear,  aren't  you?"  And,  afterwards,  Jean 
often  had  the  feeling  that  the  little  head  had  moved 
in  acknowledgment. 

She  went  back  to  the  pew.  The  cover  was  screwed 
down.  The  young  priest  preceded  the  coffin  to  the 
door.  In  stole  and  surplice  he  stood  beside  the  open 
grave.  "Dust  to  dust."  The  earth  and  dry  snow 
powdered  upon  the  lid.  It  was  all  as  Martha  would 
have  wished — calm,  beautiful,  alone  with  Jean  and 
God. 

Jean  came  back  to  the  apartment.  The  trees  on 
the  Palisades  were  hidden  under  a  burden  of  white. 
Thick  white  snow  muffled  passing  footsteps.  She  was 
alone,  absolutely  alone  in  the  still,  snow-muffled  uni 
verse. 

The  next  day  Jean  went  back  to  the  office.  Jerome 
Stuart  made  no  conventional  reference  and  Jean  was 
grateful.  He  suggested  their  getting  to  work  on  a 
new  Child  Labor  law  and  they  talked  over  details  for 
an  hour.  When  he  had  gone  back  to  his  own  office, 
Jean  wrote  a  brief  note  telling  Mary.  But  even  Mary 
was  not  real.  She,  too,  was  off  beyond  the  barrier  that 
shut  Jean  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Katy  returned.  The  routine 
of  life  settled.  Trained  by  Martha,  Katy  duplicated 
to  her  best  the  comfort  that  Martha  had  infused. 
Each  nighfc  as  Jean  closed  the  door  behind  her,  she 
felt  it  claim  her,  this  grotesque,  terrible  duplicate  of 
Martha's  devotion.  For  thirty  dollars  a  month,  Katy 
created  a  home,  followed  the  small  customs  that  had 
sprung  from  Martha's  love. 

As  the  days  slid  by,  one  exactly  like  another,  Jean 
felt  as  if  she  were  being  walled  forever  in  Katy's  or- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  353 

dered  emptiness.  She  left  earlier  in  the  morning  and 
returned  later  at  night,  but  it  was  there  waiting,  until 
the  day  came  to  center  in  the  moment  when  she  would 
have  to  turn  the  knob  and  enter  the  warm,  lighted 
vault;  sit  alone  at  the  well-prepared  meal  and  after 
wards  try  to  read  in  the  silence.  All  day  she  was  con 
scious  of  it  waiting. 

Strange  fears  rose  in  Jean  and  she  was  helpless  be 
fore  them.  Sometimes  she  left  the  office  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  and  went  home  to  face  and  conquer 
the  terrible  emptiness,  and  sometimes  she  walked  in 
the  night  until  she  could  scarcely  stand,  and  it  was 
there  waiting  for  her.  Gradually  in  the  depth  of  the 
emptiness,  something  formed,  a  shadow-shape  that 
Jean  could  neither  annihilate  nor  grasp.  It  was  as  if, 
in  her  going,  Martha  had  left  a  door  open  behind  her, 
a  narrow  crack  through  which  Jean  could  neither  see 
clearly,  nor  quite  close.  And  the  thought  of  death 
began  to  sift  down  through  life,  absorbing  its  reality. 

Jean  saw  herself,  her  work,  her  smallest  act,  as  a 
pebble  in  the  conglomerate  mass  of  time.  Like  a 
gigantic  rock  crusher,  Time  reduced  all  effort  to 
powder.  In  the  vacant  hours  of  the  night,  under  the 
gleam  of  the  cold,  gold  stars,  the  endings  of  things 
came  to  obsess  Jean.  Everything  ended,  everything. 
No  matter  how  deeply  indented  the  surface,  the  end 
ing  washed  it  clean  again.  Separation  washed  out 
human  relationships,  old  age  washed  away  physical 
effort  and  interest,  death  washed  away  all.  Every 
thing  ended,  books,  buildings,  days,  nights,  work,  rest, 
love,  life.  Everything  lasted  for  a  while  and  then 
stopped. 

Hour  after  hour  Jean  sat,  staring  out  to  the  river, 
stifled  by  the  fact  of  death,  that  great  ending  contain 
ing  within  itself  all  the  ends  of  one's  smallest  acts. 

Where  was  Martha  now?  Was  there  nothing  any 
where  of  that  patient  little  figure  that  had  trotted  so 


354,         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

busily  through  its  daily  rounds?  Were  all  the  habits 
and  preferences  one  built  up  through  the  years,  but 
things  of  flesh?  Was  there  nothing  left  anywhere,  in 
any  form,  of  that  gigantic  faith?  Did  man  impose 
upon  himself  this  sentence  of  life?  Summon  himself 
from  nowhere,  to  struggle  for  a  moment,  and  go  back 
to  nothingness  again?  In  his  terror  of  the  immense 
quietness  of  Death,  had  he  invented  Heaven,  an  escape 
from  the  inconceivable  peace  he  had  never  known  in 
life?  Had  he  invented  God  because  he  dared  not  be 
alone  beyond  the  grave?  And  if  Man  had  not  imposed 
his  own  sentence,  who  had?  Martha's  God,  the 
Tyrant  who  hurled  us  into  life,  whipped  us  through 
the  years,  snatched  us  away  at  the  end,  never  for  one 
single  moment,  revealing  His  purpose.  Or  was  it  all 
some  huge  machine  set  going  in  the  unthinkable  be 
ginning  of  Time,  grinding  purposelessly  on  to  an  un 
thinkable  end? 

The  door  would  neither  open  wide  nor  close,  and 
Jean's  hair  whitened  above  the  temples. 

In  April,  when  the  trees  began  to  bud,  she  gave 
Katy  an  extra  month's  wages  and  dismissed  her.  Jean 
had  reached  another  ending;  the  ending  of  the  sense 
less  battle  that  had  once  seemed  so  worth  while.  She 
was  going  back  to  the  gray  fog,  to  the  wide  still  spaces, 
back  to  the  warm  sands  and  cool  salt  winds  and  the 
sea,  that  neither  sought  nor  promised  peace  but  had  it. 

When  the  details  of  her  going  were  arranged  with 
the  committee,  Jean  went  to  tell  Jerome  Stuart.  Now 
that  she  was  leaving,  this  quiet  man  with  the  stooping 
student  shoulders  and  the  thick  gray  hair,  always 
ruffled  to  disorder,  stood  out  for  a  moment,  against  the 
background  of  their  work  together,  and  Jean  felt,  as 
he  sat  looking  at  her,  that  he  was  surprised  and  dis 
appointed.  But  it  did  not  matter.  Nothing  mattered. 

"You  are  really  leaving  for  good?" 

"Yes.     I  never  expect  to  come  back  to  New  York. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          355 

I've  turned  in  my  resignation  and  it's  been  accepted, 
with  a  provision  of  their  own  invention  that,  if  I 
change  my  mind  within  a  year,  I  am  to  return."  Jean 
smiled.  "And  I  let  it  go  at  that." 

"Then  all  the  schemes  we've  talked  over  are  not  to 
be?  No  one  else  can  take  your  place  and  carry  them 
through." 

For  a  moment  Jean  felt  them  dragging  at  her,  hold 
ing  her  back.  To  what  end  ?  What  would  they  give 
in  return?  Greater  comfort,  for  a  time,  to  a  few 
people  whom  she  would  never  see.  A  few  patches  put 
in  the  social  fabric. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  can.  Why,  Charlotte  Stetson's  so 
anxious  to  try  her  hand  she  could  scarcely  be  decently 
regretful!" 

Jean  tried  to  speak  lightly  but  Jerome  Stuart's  ex 
pression  stopped  her. 

"Please  don't  be  insincere,  Mrs.  Herrick." 

Jean  flushed.  She  was  destroying  this  man's  con 
ception  of  her  and  she  had  valued  it. 

"You  are  acting  on  a  lessened  impulse  and  it  is 
wrong,"  he  added  quietly.  "It  is  always  wrong  and 
so — it  is  always  a  mistake." 

"Not  always,"  Jean  defended,  and  rose  abruptly. 
If  she  stayed  she  might  ask  him  of  life  and  death  and 
the  aimless  muddle  of  the  whole.  "I've  thought  it 
over  carefully.  I  am  not  acting  on  impulse.  It  is  a 
decision." 

He  said  nothing  as  he  followed  to  the  door  and  rang 
the  elevator  bell.  But  as  Jean  stepped  into  the  cage, 
he  held  out  his  hand  and  said  with  the  look  that  had 
often  made  Jean  feel  that,  in  spite  of  his  forty-eight 
years,  his  grown  daughter,  and  all  the  years  of  public 
service  behind  him,  he  had  kept  unspoiled  the  sweet 
cleanness  of  a  little  child. 

"Think  it  over  again — and  come  back." 


356         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

She  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  want  to  lie  again 
to  Jerome  Stuart. 

The  next  day  Jean  stood  in  the  empty  apartment 
that  had  been  her  home  for  five  years.  With  the  re 
moval  of  the  furniture  it  seemed  to  have  changed  its 
spirit.  The  bare  walls  stared  back  indifferent  to  the 
pain  and  happiness  they  had  encompassed.  Before  an 
other  twenty-four  hours  were  gone,  some  one  else 
might  be  looking  down  into  the  tree-lined  street  where, 
later,  the  fat  white  babies  would  be  wheeled,  and  where 
now  the  trees  were  beginning  to  leaf,  not  as  they  would 
in  the  full  eagerness  of  a  few  weeks  hence,  but  in  the 
meager,  timid  fashion  of  a  chilly  spring,  a  little  leaf 
here  and  there. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO 

THE  porter  dimmed  the  lights  for  the  night.  In 
the  berth  above  a  man  snored,  and  across  the 
aisle  an  old  woman  breathed  in  gasping  squeaks.  Jean 
pulled  up  the  blind,  and,  propped  on  her  pillow,  stared 
into  the  night  and  tried  not  to  hear.  But  the  breath 
ing  of  the  crowded  car  was  persistent  and  grouped 
itself  into  strange  rhythms  and  chords  that  stripped 
away  spiritual  differences  and  leveled  the  sleepers  to 
a  common  physical  need. 

Jean  remembered  how  she  had  lain  so,  her  first  night 
in  a  sleeper,  ten  years  before,  and  how  the  hot,  dark 
intimacy  had  excited  her.  How  near  she  had  felt  to 
some  mystery,  as  if  she  were  just  about  to  penetrate 
some  exciting  secret.  Even  the  blackness  of  the  prairie 
had  quivered  with  it.  The  red  and  green  semaphores, 
uncannily  obedient  to  a  hidden  power,  had  winked 
their  inclusion  in  the  great  adventure.  The  lonely 
little  stations,  specks  of  light  in  the  night,  had  been 
so  friendly  and  knowing.  Now  they  hurt,  so  bravely 
and  uselessly  battling  against  the  engulfing  darkness, 
the  thick,  limitless  blackness  of  the  prairie. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  Jean  stepped 
from  the  train,  and  Mary  put  her  arms  around  her. 
As  they  crossed  the  Bay,  they  sat  very  near  together 
in  the  bow  and  watched  the  city  lights,  diffused  in  the 
high  fog,  glow  a  red  mist  over  the  hills.  But  it  was 
not  until  they  stood  in  the  small  room  opening  from 
the  Doctor's,  that  the  armor  Jean  had  raised  for  her 
own  protection  loosened,  and  then  she  dared  not  speak 
for  fear  of  crying. 

357 


358          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

A  gong  sounded. 

"We  meet  every  night  in  the  Assembly  Hall  for  half 
an  hour  or  so,"  Mary  said  huskily  and  Jean  nodded. 
"This  is  going  to  be  your  room.  Don't  wait  up  for 
me." 

When  Mary  was  gone,  Jean  switched  out  the  lights 
and  went  to  the  window  where  she  had  stood  so  often 
in  the  old  days,  relieved  at  Herrick's  going,  wonder 
ing  at  her  own  lack  of  wonder;  and  a  year  later, 
tingling  with  excitement  at  the  offer  from  New  York. 
Almost  ten  crowded  years.  And  now  she  was  back. 

When  the  gong  of  dismissal  sounded,  Jean  went  into 
her  own  room  and  closed  the  door.  She  heard  Mary 
come  and  light  the  light  but  she  made  no  sound.  After 
a  while  the  light  went  out,  but  from  time  to  time  Jean 
heard  a  match  strike,  and  she  knew  that  the  little 
doctor  was  lying  there  smoking.  It  was  strange  to 
have  Mary  smoking  and  thinking  about  her,  as  if  she 
were  "a  case,"  but  there  was  comfort  in  it  too,  as  if 
she  had  come  home  and  some  one  was  watching  over 
her.  At  last  Jean  slept. 

In  a  few  days,  Mary  spoke  tentatively  of  China. 
But  the  hour  of  rekindled  interest  did  not  return  and 
they  did  not  mention  it  again.  Jean  took  on  a  few 
cases  and  attended  to  them  mechanically  in  the  morn 
ings.  But  no  misfortune  or  sorrow  pentrated  below 
the  surface  of  the  mind  trained  to  handle  them.  The 
real  hours  of  the  day  were  the  afternoons,  when  Jean 
walked  for  miles  alone  against  the  clean  sea  wind,  or 
through  the  gray  fog,  that  now  seemed  to  be  filled 
with  the  souls  of  the  dead;  helpless  things  that 
had  not  been  able  to  get  through  this  grayness  into  the 
joy  in  which  they  had  believed ;  or  lingering  souls,  loath 
to  leave  the  only  world  they  had  ever  known. 

In  the  evenings,  Jean  took  some  classes,  and  tried 
to  mix  cheerfully  with  the  other  workers,  women  like 
those  whom  it  had  once  so  stimulated  her  to  feel 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM         359 

working1  at  the  tangle  with  their  thin,  white  fingers. 
But  now  they  depressed  her,  sheltered  from  personal 
emotion  behind  their  diffused  pity  for  the  world. 
Often,  she  left  them  to  walk  in  the  Latin  Quarter  until 
night  emptied  the  streets  of  the  dark  men,  forever 
arguing  and  gesticulating,  and  the  frowsy  women, 
terrible  in  their  fecundity,  nursing  their  babies  from 
big,  brown  breasts.  The  tremendous  vitality  of  these 
people  rested  Jean,  so  that  watching,  she  herself 
seemed  to  be  accomplishing. 

But  the  days  slipped  into  weeks  and  the  weeks  to 
months  and  she  still  stood  aside  watching.  She  wrote 
no  letters  to  New  York  and  received  none.  Some 
times  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  write  to  Jerome  Stuart 
but  when  she  tried  to  think  of  what  she  would  say,  she 
could  find  nothing. 

It  was  a  week  before  Christmas,  a  blue,  clear  day 
between  rains,  that  Jean  sat  by  the  sea  and  tried  to 
face  the  coming  year.  What  was  she  going  to 
do?  The  waves  lapped  the  sand,  fishing  smacks 
scudded  by,  and  white  gulls  circled  overhead. 
Jean's  thoughts  went  round  and  round  in  an  ever 
narrowing  circle,  and  when  she  tried  to  slip  through 
this  closing  space  and  grasp  the  coming  year,  Gregory, 
on  the  sand  beside  her,  stirred.  Her  fingers  touched  his 
crisp,  dry  hair.  The  beach  was  crowded  with  people, 
but  they  were  alone.  The  sand  was  littered  with 
papers,  and  broken  piers  jutted  into  the  water  and 
the  air  was  heavy  with  summer  heat.  But  she  was 
alive  with  every  nerve  in  her. 

Jean  got  up  and  began  to  walk  back  across  the 
dunes.  On  and  on  over  the  shifting  sand,  past  the 
straggling  cottages  of  workmen,  on  through  the  well- 
kept  streets  of  wealthy  homes,  dwindling  again  to 
middle-class  flats,  until  finally,  at  dusk,  Jean  stood  on 
the  last  hill  looking  down  into  Chinatown.  She  was 
tired  at  last,  so  that  the  weariness  in  her  muscles  corre- 


360         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

sponded  to  the  weariness  in  her  soul,  and  she  had  the 
temporary  peace  that  comes  of  physical  and  mental 
accord.  The  odor  of  sandalwood  and  opium  and 
strange  eastern  things  rose  to  meet  her  as  she  went 
forward  down  the  hill. 

Stolid  women  pattered  along,  making  their  ridicu 
lous  purchases,  haggling  over  a  leek,  a  single  pork 
chop,  a  wing  of  chicken.  Calm  men  sat  smoking  long 
pipes  in  their  dim  shops.  She  might  have  left  it  the 
day  before.  The  vast  stability  of  it  mocked  her.  It 
was  like  the  ever  moving,  never  resting  sea — this 
human  necessity  to  eat,  to  buy  and  sell,  to  move  about. 
Hundreds  of  people  had  died  since  she  had  walked 
these  streets  with  Herrick.  Death  had  touched  her 
own  life.  Thousands  of  walking,  talking  units  had 
been  taken,  thousands  of  the  little  empty  spaces  had 
lasted  for  a  second  and  then  the  moving  mass  had 
closed  in  again. 

A  woman  came  from  a  dark  doorway,  a  rainbow 
bundle  strapped  to  her  back.  From  the  bundle  a 
small  brown  face  with  almond  eyes  looked  calmly  on 
the  confusion  of  living.  The  mother  stopped  to  bar 
gain  for  a  fried  fish  and  Jean  touched  the  smooth, 
brown  cheek. 

"A  silly  mess,  isn't  it,  baby?" 

The  mother  turned  instantly  and  moved  farther  into 
the  familiar  safety  of  her  own  people.  At  the  corner 
Jean  stopped  again,  looking  toward  Portsmouth 
Square,  the  benches  filled  with  men  and  boys,  the 
familiar  refuse  of  Babary  Coast.  She  was  still  looking 
when  a  man,  hurrying  round  the  corner,  brought  up 
so  suddenly  that  he  seemed  to  have  been  thrown  back 
upon  his  heels. 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

She  turned  quickly  and  looked  at  Franklin  Herrick. 

Jean  spoke  first.     "I  don't  know  why  it  is  so  sur- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM         36l 

prising.  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  stranger  if  we 
hadn't  met." 

"But  I  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

"No,  of  course  you  didn't." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Herrick  had 
grown  heavier,  his  features  had  coarsened.  He  looked 
untidy. 

"I — I  am  really  glad." 

Jean  smiled.  The  implication  of  possible  regret  on 
her  part  was  so  Herricky. 

"Why,  no,  why  should  I?"  She  answered  his  un 
spoken  thought,  but  Herrick  did  not  notice.  The 
interest  of  the  thing  claimed  him  as  nothing  had  done 
for  months.  He  had  once  been  married  to  this  large, 
prosperous-looking  person,  the  one  woman  whom  he 
had  never  been  able  to  influence,  to  swerve  a  hair  from 
her  own  path.  And  here  she  was  after  eleven  years, 
looking  at  him  with  the  same  straight  look,  throwing 
aside  all  sentiment,  going  violently  to  the  bottom  of 
every  little  question,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  im 
portance. 

"Could  we  go  and  have  tea  somewhere?  Unless  you 
are  in  a  hurry." 

"It  was  you  who  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry." 

"Well,  I'm  not,  now.     Tea,  then?" 

They  turned,  and  Jean  knew  that  Herrick  would 
go  straight  to  the  tea  house  where  they  had  had  their 
first  tea,  but  when  he  ordered  the  same  little  almond 
cakes  and  preserved  ginger,  Jean  laughed. 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  knew  you  would  do  that." 

"Did  you?  But  you  always  did  know  what  I  would 
do.  I  think  that  was  the  trouble,  I  could  never  feel 
masculine  and  superior.  I  always  felt  like  a  window 
with  you,  as  if  you  were  looking  straight  through  me." 

Jean's  eyes  sobered.  She  must  have  hurt  deeply, 
more  often  than  she  had  known. 


362          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"That  would  have  pleased  me  terribly  once  on  a 
time.  I  should  have  adored  making  people  feel  like 
windows." 

Herrick  waited  until  the  waiter  had  shuffled  away 
for  more  hot  water. 

"Doesn't  it  make  you  feel  that  way  now?"  This 
was  going  to  be  really  interesting. 

"No.  It  wouldn't.  But  then  one  changes  a  lot 
in  eleven  years." 

"Less  two  months,"  he  added  softly. 

Was  he  actually  going  to  set  a  stage?  But  he 
looked  so  seedy  and  heavy  and  bored,  that  Jean's  an 
noyance  melted  in  pity  again. 

"When  you  think  of  it  as  more  than  a  tenth  of  a  cen 
tury,  there  seems  plenty  of  time,  doesn't  there?" 

A  tenth  of  a  century!  It  was  horrible  put  that 
way;  an  eternity.  And  so  like  Jean.  A  flush  crept 
up  to  Herrick's  eyes  and  he  looked  away. 

"You  have  made  good.  Your  tenth  of  a  century 
has  not  been  wasted." 

And  Jean  saw,  as  if  he  had  told  her,  the  sordid 
sequence  of  the  years  to  him.  The  knowledge  of  that 
dreary  waste  saddened  her. 

"I  have  worked.     The  East  is  full  of  opportunity." 

Work,  opportunity.  The  old  worship  of  effort  for 
its  own  sake.  Herrick  forced  back  the  words  that 
rose  to  his  lips. 

"Yes.  I  saw  that  you  had  done  some  big  thing 
about  tubercular  tenements.  The  papers  here  had 
quite  a  bit  about  it.  I  think  some  one  tried  to  start 
a  movement  like  it." 

Jean  shrank.     She  could  not  talk  of  that  to  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said  shortly.  "I  had  something  to  do 
with  it,  but  so  had  a  lot  of  other  people." 

But  she  would  lead.  It  was  her  way  to  lead  and 
then  to  share  the  credit.  It  was  the  old,  maddeningly 
generous  way.  No,  she  had  not  changed,  not  really* 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

no  matter  what  she  said.  Her  life  had  gone  as  she 
had  planned  it.  Nothing  had  swerved  her  from  her 
ideal  of  work  and  success.  Hard  and  cold  and  in 
trinsically  selfish,  she  had  forced  life  to  her  will.  And 
he :  a  cloying  affair  with  The  Kitten,  more  and  shorter 
affairs,  always  seeking,  never  finding,  wasted  through 
his  own  capacity  to  feel,  dragged  down  by  the  biggest 
thing  in  him,  the  weakness  that  might  have  been  a 
strength. 

If  Jean  had  cared!  It  would  have  taken  such  a 
little  from  her  store  of  patience  and  faith  in  herself. 
She  had  been  niggardly,  hoarded  it  for  herself. 

"You  have  had  a  lot,"  he  said  at  last,  "everything 
you  ever  wanted." 

From  the  tragic  emptiness  of  his  eyes  Jean  turned 
her  own.  Before  his,  the  emptiness  of  her  days  stood 
clean  and  filled  with  happy  memories. 

"I  have  had  a  lot." 

The  grotesquely  carved  balcony  vanished  into  thfe 
tea-room  of  the  upper  thirties.  Instead  of  Herrick, 
heavy  and  soft  with  regret,  Gregory  sat,  strong  and 
happy  in  his  success,  and  she  had  wished  for  a  moment 
that  he  had  not  won,  and  had  been  proud  and  miserable 
and  weak  with  love.  Tears  rushed  to  Jean's  eyes  and 
she  bit  her  lip  to  keep  them  back. 

Herrick  started.  Not  even  to  Jean  could  work 
alone  bring  that  look.  Slowly  the  color  left  his  face. 

"You — have  found  out  what  love  is,  too." 

Jean  nodded.  Herrick  covered  his  face  hastily  with 
his  hand.  He  had  been  right  then,  right  in  his  first 
analysis,  so  long  ago,  by  the  camp  fires  in  the  sandy 
coves.  It  had  been  in  Jean  always.  In  those  silly, 
idealistic  first  weeks  of  their  marriage,  when  he  had 
been  content  with  so  little.  It  had  been  there  the  night 
he  had  seized  and  kissed  her  and  she  had  pushed  him 
away.  It  had  been  there,  hidden  so  deep  from  his 
touch,  that  he  had  ceased  to  believe  in  its  existence. 


364         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

And  some  one  else  had  touched  it  to  life.  He  sat 
with  his  shoulders  bowed,  his  face  hidden.  After  a 
long  time  he  said: 

"You  are  married,  then?'* 

His  hand  still  hid  his  face.  The  hand,  too,  had 
coarsened  and  grown  thick.  There  was  black  hair 
along  the  joints  and  the  nails  were  ill-kept.  And  once 
Jean  had  liked  Herrick's  hands.  They  had  held  hers 
so  surely,  racing  along  the  sands. 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "Not  legally.  He  was 
married  and  had  a  child."  After  all,  it  was  not  much 
to  give  in  atonement,  this  little  confidence,  but  it  was 
the  best  she  had. 

For  a  moment  Herrick  did  not  move.  Then  his  hand 
came  slowly  down.  He  stared,  puzzled.  Amazement 
and  finally  understanding  flashed  across  his  face. 
Herrick  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  aloud. 

"Good  Lord,  Jean.     You — an  affair!" 

Jean  rose.  Her  knees  were  shaking  and  she  was 
cold. 

"Don't,"  she  commanded  in  a  whisper,  and  Herrick, 
half  risen  from  his  chair,  sank  back.  Seeing  nothing, 
Jean  crossed  the  balcony,  walked  swiftly  through  the 
great  banquet  hall  and  down  the  stairs  to  the  street. 

Herrick  sat  where  he  was  until  the  waiter  came  and 
asked  him  to  move  his  table  to  make  room  for  a  group 
of  long-coated  merchants  in  gowns  of  silk.  Then  he 
paid  the  bill  and  went.  It  was  night. 

In  her  room  at  the  settlement,  Jean  walked  up  and 
down,  her  hands  gripped  behind  her  in  the  old  habit. 
Twice  Mary  came  to  the  door  and  listened  to  the 
even  stride,  and  went  back  to  her  book  and  tried  to 
read.  It  was  close  on  one  o'clock  when  the  door 
opened  and  Jean  came  in.  Instinctively,  Mary  rose 
as  if  to  meet  a  crisis.  At  the  movement,  J«ean  laid  her 
hands  on  the  doctor's  shoulders  and  forced  her  gently 
down.  Then,  just  as  she  had  done  on  the  night  she 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          365 

had  left  The  Kitten  standing  by  the  greasy  table,  and 
on  the  night  when  she  had  told  Mary  of  her  desire  for 
a  child  of  Gregory's,  Jean  dropped  to  her  knees,  and, 
sitting  back  on  her  heels,  said  quietly: 

"Mary,  I'm  going  back  to  New  York  just  as  fast 
as  a  train  will  take  me.  I'm  a  weak,  cowardly  idiot." 

"Really?  I  don't  know  that  I  would  put  it  quite  so 
strongly  myself." 

Jean  smiled.  "That's  not  strong  enough,  Mary, 
not  by  half." 

"Maybe  not.     But  why  this  sudden  realization?" 

"I  had  tea  with  Franklin  this  afternoon." 

"Well?" 

"Poor  Boy  Blue !    Poor,  weak,  vain,  longing  Begee !" 

"Jean!"  Mary  gripped  her  shoulders.  "What  fool 
thing  are  you  contemplating  now?  You're  not  going 
to  tow  That  back  East,  are  you?" 

"Good  Lord,  no !"  Jean  laughed  as  Mary  had  not 
heard  her  laugh  since  her  arrival.  There  was  a  silence 
so  long  that  the  doctor  drifted  down  a  dozen  false 
paths  of  conjecture  before  Jean  said: 

"Mary,  do  you  remember  that  vacation  I  took  sud 
denly,  after  telling  you  that  night — just  before  you 
left?  You  knew,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes.  I  knew.  I  would  have  stayed,  Jean,  only  it 
wouldn't  have  done  any  good." 

"No.  I  was  glad  you  weren't  there.  It  made  it 
easier,  in  a  way.  And  I  was  glad  when  Pat  went,  too, 
and  the  children.  I  had  only  to  deceive  mummy,  then 
• — and  keep  going."  Jean  stopped  and  Mary  smoked 
two  cigarettes  before  she  began  again. 

"And  then  mummy  died  and  there  was  no  need  to 
pretend  any  more,  no  need  for  anything.  Mary,  it 
wasn't  true  that  I  came  West  for  a  vacation.  I  didn't 
come  to  se.  you.  I  came  to  leave  it  all.  I  let  go." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  before  Jean  went  on. 

"I  had  loved  a  man  so  that  his  going  took  all  the 


366          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

meaning  out  of  life.  And  I  went  on  for  a  while 
through  a  kind  of  inertia  and  because,  from  a  baby, 
mummy  had  beaten  a  sense  of  duty  into  me.  It  was 
no  force  of  my  own.  I  had  jumped  into  a  stream, 
and  when  the  current  was  too  strong  for  my  strength 
I  went  down,  just  as  Franklin  and  Flop  and  The 
Kitten,  and  all  those  whom  I  used  to  despise,  went 
down  when  their  particular  current  was  too  strong 
for  them.  Why,  on  the  night  I  got  Gregory's  letter, 
if  I  could  have  gone  to  him  I  would  have.  I  would 
have  had  it  all  back,  under  any  conditions,  at  any 
price.  Nothing  mattered,  nothing  in  the  whole  world, 
but  to  feel  his  arms  about  me,  to  know  that  it  had  not 
finished.  I  would  have  gone  to  her,  just  as  The  Kitten 
came,  and  asked  her  to  give  him  to  me.'* 

"But  you  didn't,  Jean." 

"No.  Because  something  in  me,  that  I  hated  for  its 
clearness,  saw  that  if  it  had  been  to  him  what  it  had 
been  to  me,  he  would  never  have  written  that  letter. 
I  had  had  nothing,  Mary,  or  such  a  little  part  of  what 
I  had  believed  I  had." 

Jean  shivered.  Mary's  hand  moved  to  comfort,  but 
did  not. 

"And  then,  this  afternoon,  when  Franklin  said  I 
had  had  everything,  and  I  saw  him  sitting  there  heavier 
and  coarsened  and  so  empty — Mary,  he's  so  tragically 
empty — it  came  to  me  suddenly  that  I  had  had  a  lot. 
I  have  always  had  friendship,  Pat  and  you,  and  un- 
shakeable  love  like  mummy's,  and  I  had  those  wonder 
ful  months  with  Gregory,  and  not  even  the  ending  of 
it  can  really  take  them  away,  and  I  wanted  to  give 
Franklin  something,  so  I  told  him  that  I  had  loved 
a  married  man  and  that  we  had  never  been  legally 
married." 

A  little  smile  twitched  the  corners  of  Jean's  lips. 

"And  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  and 
said :  'Good  Lord,  Jean— you — an  affair !'  and  I  have 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          367 

been  listening  to  that  laugh  and  hearing  that  'you — 
an  affair !'  ever  since.  And  in  a  way,  he  is  right." 

"Jean!" 

"Yes,  he  is.  You  see,  I  had  never  thought  of  it  like 
that,  stripped  of  all  the  personal  element,  just  bare 
and  stark  as  it  would  sound  in  a  court  of  law.  It  was 
me,  and  so  it  was  different.  What  is  an  affair, 
technically?  It's  a  love,  without  legal  bonds,  that 
breaks  up  or  dies  of  its  own  accord.  Never  mind  what 
it  is  to  the  parties  concerned,  that's  what  it  is  to  the 
world.  That's  what  my  love  for  Gregory  is  to  the 
world,  to  Franklin;  what  his  and  The  Kitten's  and 
Flop's  and  The  Tiger's  was  to  me." 

"Jean,  you're  crazy.     Isn't  the  spirit  anything?" 

"Everything.  But  I  am  trying  to  make  it  clear  what 
it  was  to  Franklin " 

"Of  course  it  would  be  that  to  him." 

"And  what  he  made  me  see.  How  do  I  know  the 
measure  of  the  force  that  drove  him  to  The  Kitten? 
We  have  no  measure  but  our  own  needs.  Fifteen 
years  ago,  would  I  have  thought  it  possible,  when 
the  days  wouldn't  pass  fast  enough  to  get  me  into  life 
and  work,  that  a  day  would  come  when  success,  achieve 
ment,  the  chosen  work  of  years,  would  all  shrivel  to 
nothing  because  one  certain  man  had  gone  out  of  them  ? 
Three  years  ago,  would  I  have  believed  that  Gregory 
could  fill  his  days  without  me,  could  have  gone  on  with 
out  my  sympathy  and  love  and  understanding?  That 
he  could  have  nothing  deeper  in  his  life  than  that 
chattering  doll?  Mary,  there's  only  one  thing  that  I 
am  sure  of,  and  that  is  that  we  don't  know  a  single 
thing  about  any  one  else,  or  ourselves,  either." 

Jean  rose  and  stood  looking  down  at  Mary. 

"And  so  you  are  going  back?" 

"Yes.  I  am  going  back.  I  am  not  going  to  drift, 
here,  beside  the  sea  and  hills,  which  are  my  Kitten,  my 
succession  of  sordid  loves,  my  easiest  way.  I  am  go' 


368          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

ing  back.  It  won't  be  easy.  I  know  that.  There 
will  be  times — Mary,  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to 
die  inside,  to  see  and  never  to  feel,  not  even  anger,  to 
have  nothing  sharper  than  memory." 

"And  you  don't  know,  Jean,"  Mary  spoke  slowly 
and  rose  from  her  chair  as  if  she  had  grown  very  tired, 
"what  it  means  to  have  been  emotionally  comfortable 
all  your  life.  Never  to  have  gone  down  nor  up.  Never 
to  have  died  nor  been  alive.  To  have  grown  old  in 
comfort.  A  kind  of  paradox,  isn't  it,  to  have  been 
always  so  comfortable  that  sometimes  it  hurts." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  cold,  clear  day 
two  weeks  later  that  Jean  stood  outside  the  Grand 
Central  Station  and  looked  at  the  moving  streams  of 
strangers,  all  touched  to  faint  friendliness  by  the 
accident  of  being  in  the  same  city,  on  the  same  street, 
at  the  same  hour  as  herself.  She  felt  as  if  she  knew 
them  all,  but  had  slipped  back  noiselessly  without 
warning  among  them,  and  as  yet  they  had  not  seen 
her. 

Jean  was  smiling  to  herself,  when  one  of  the  mov 
ing  units  escaped  the  stream,  and  came  to  a  halt  be 
side  her. 

"Well,  Jean  Herrick,  of  all  people!  I  thought  you 
were  in  California." 

Jean  turned  to  encounter  the  sharp  face  and  mouse- 
bright  eyes  of  Catherine  Lee,  whom  she  had  neither 
seen  nor  thought  of  for  years,  although,  during  the 
first  winter  in  New  York,  Catherine  had  been  the  center 
of  a  group  that  met  every  Sunday  evening  for  tea, 
usually  at  Jean's. 

"I  was!" 

"When  did  you  get  back?" 

"About  ten  minutes  ago,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
dropped  from  a  parachute.  I  was  just  debating  the 
Y.  W.  C.  A.  or  the  Martha  Washington.  I  loathe 
hotels » 

"I  say,  do  you  mean  you  have  no  plans  at  all?  Be 
cause  we  can  put  you  up  at  our  place  if  you  care  to 
— ten  rooms  down  on  Grove  Street,  a  garden  the  size 
of  a  handkerchief,  a  fountain  the  size  of  a  lemonade 

369 


370          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

straw,  four,  free,  feminine  souls,  and  an  empty  attic. 
Yes?" 

"It  sounds  like  a  Demonstration.  Till  I  get  my 
bearings,  and  thank  you  a  thousand  times." 

"Come  on.     We'll  walk,  unless  you're  tired." 

"Of  sitting  still  for  a  week !" 

They  swung  away,  Jean  shortening  her  step  to  tht 
quick  patter  of  Catherine's.  As  they  went,  Cath 
erine  told  of  her  work  and  Jean  listened  enough  to 
make  out  that  Catherine  had  built  herself  a  firm  place 
in  this  city  she  had  once  hated:  that  any  woman  with 
brains  and  grit  could  force  New  York  to  recognize  her 
and  that  managing  concerts  and  readings  paid  "like 
the  devil"  if  you  got  in  right. 

The  patter  of  the  crisp  voice  went  on  until,  as  they 
turned  into  Grove  Street,  Catherine  broke  off  so 
sharply,  that  Jean  feared  her  inattention  had  been  dis 
covered,  and  was  just  about  to  apologize  when  she 
caught  a  flush  on  Catherine's  dry,  brown  cheeks,  and 
followed  her  eyes  to  the  heavy-set  figure  of  a  man, 
standing  on  the  curb,  throwing  pennies  into  the  slush, 
while  a  horde  of  street  urchins  shouted  and  fought  for 
them.  The  man's  clumsy  body  was  convulsed  with 
laughter,  and  he  made  false  motions  of  throwing,  with 
ungainly  sweeps  of  his  arms. 

Catherine  hurried  forward  and  Jean  felt  that  she 
wanted  to  reach  the  man  and  put  an  end  to  the. 
spectacle.  But  as  they  came  to  the  red  brick  house, 
with  white  window  facings  and  green  window  boxes,  the 
man  turned  and  crossed  to  them. 

"Jean,  let  me  present  Philip  Fletcher,  Nan  Bob^- 
ham's  cousin  and  the  nearest  thing  we  possess  to  a 
male  inmate.  Philip,  Mrs.  Herrick  of  the  Women's 
Civic  Leagues." 

Philip  Fletcher  ripped  off  his  hat  with  absurd 
exaggeration  and  made  a  low  bow.  Now  that  she 
looked  at  him  closely,  Jean  saw  that  the  man's  features 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          371 

were  well  cut,  his  eyes  were  clear,  blue  and  kind,  a 
trifle  too  far  apart,  and  that  his  mouth  was  weak. 
Jean's  first  impression  that  he  might  not  be  quite 
normal  mentally,  vanished.  He  was  evidently  a  simple 
soul,  without  dignity,  but  of  a  vanity  that  demanded 
attention  even  at  his  own  expense. 

He  followed  them  in,  and  as  Catherine  led  the  way 
up  to  the  attic,  Jean  heard  him  go  on  laughing  down 
the  hall  and  into  a  room  at  the  end.  She  was  sure 
that  he  had  often  thrown  pennies  before  and  would 
often  do  it  again,  and  be  overwhelmingly  amused  each 
time. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  it?" 

The  attic  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  house  and  had 
a  big  open  fireplace  at  one  end.  The  original  windows 
had  been  replaced  in  the  front  by  leaded  glass  doors, 
opening  on  a  small  balcony.  The  walls  were  burlapped 
and  the  furniture  upholstered  in  gay  chintz.  It  was 
a  woman's  room  but  it  reminded  Jean  in  a  way  of 
Flop's,  as  it  might  have  been  if  The  Bunch  had  never 
entered  it. 

"It's  glorious !" 

"I'll  have  a  fire  lighted  right  away  and  the  bath's 
across  the  hall.  There's  sure  to  be  plenty  of  hot  water, 
because  the  old  souse  that  Philip's  wished  on  us  for 
the  last  furnace  man,  nearly  explodes  the  furnace 
every  day."  She  was  at  the  door,  when  she  turned 
and  added,  "Phil's  in  one  of  his  annoying  moods  to 
night.  Don't  take  it  too  seriously." 

Jean  laughed  and  promised  that  she  would  make 
allowances.  But  she  fancied  that  Catherine  flushed 
again  at  this,  and  wondered  why  she  took  him  so 
seriously. 

An  hour  later,  refreshed  by  her  bath,  Jean  heard 
the  dinner  bell  and  went  down  with  a  pleasant  sense  of 
curiosity  to  meet  the  "four,  free,  feminine  souls."  They 
were  seated  when  she  entered  and  Catherine  made  the 


372         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

introductions,  by  pointing  each  out  with  her  forefinger 
from  the  head  of  the  table. 

"Beth  Marshall,  that  healthy  blonde  who  looks  as 
if  she  did  Swedish  exercise  every  morning,  private  sec 
retary  on  Wall  Street.  That  dark,  artistic  being  next, 
Gerte  Forsythe,  magazine  writer,  and  furnishes  our 
emotion.  Nan  Bonham,  deceives  the  world  with  her 
white  hair,  has  the  soul  of  a  baby  and  runs  the  Pres 
byterian  Relief  in  Brooklyn.  Girls,  Jean  Herrick,  head 
of  the  Women's  Civic  Leagues.  It's  stew,  again." 

"And,  verily,  I  say  unto  you,  the  stew  shall  follow 
the  roast,  and  the  hash  the  stew,  until  the  third  and 
fourth  generation  of  them  whose  parents  come  from 
New  England." 

"Shut  up,  Phil.  Nobody  invited  you  to  come  to 
night,  anyhow."  Nevertheless  Nan's  blue  eyes  twinkled 
and  Jean  knew  that  she  found  her  cousin's  humor 
amusing. 

As  Jean  spread  her  napkin,  she  felt  Philip  Fletch 
er  sizing  her  up  and  she  knew  that  Catherine  was 
watching.  She  tried  to  think  of  something  flippant 
that  would  show  she  could  enter  the  mood,  but  before 
she  could  think  of  anything,  more  to  reassure  Cath 
erine  than  from  any  desire  of  Philip  Fletcher's  ap 
proval,  Gerte  claimed  his  attention,  and  Catherine,  in 
evident  relief,  was  talking  easily  again  of  her  own  work, 
as  she  had  during  their  walk  from  the  station. 

Nan  joined  with  Gerte  and  Philip.  Beth  ate  in 
placid  silence.  With  this  grouping  of  interests  the 
meal  continued,  until  coffee,  which  was  served  in  a 
small  basement  room,  cozily  furnished,  before  an  open 
fire. 

Immediately  after  the  coffee,  all  but  Catherine  went 
their  way.  No  one  said  good-night,  or  made  any  men 
tion  of  seeing  Jean  again,  although  Jean  was  sure  that 
they  had  liked  her.  Their  "freedom"  had  hardened 
to  a  ritual  of  incivility.  If  she  stayed  for  a  week  or  a 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  373 

month,  she  would  see  these  women,  tired,  gay,  bored, 
happy,  and  they  would  see  her  in  these  many  moods 
too.  They  would  call  each  other  by  their  first  names. 
But,  if  she  left  to-night  they  would  probably  never 
think  of  her  again,  nor  she  of  them. 

Jean  stared  into  the  fire,  and  a  little  of  the  feeling 
that  she  had  had  long  ago  on  Flop's  balcony,  of 
there  being  so  many  people  in  the  world  with  the 
threads  of  their  lives  all  crossing,  came  back.  She 
thought  how  strange  it  was  that  a  few  hours  ago  she 
had  known  nothing  of  these  women  or  Grove  Street, 
and  now  she  was  there,  and  Catherine  was  explaining 
the  community  plan  on  which  the  house  worked  and, 
finally,  asking  her  if  she  wanted  to  come  in. 

"Of  course  we'll  take  a  vote  on  you,  it's  part  of  the 
charter,  but  it's  only  a  form."  She  hesitated  and 
added,  almost  shyly,  "I  think  you  would  be  comfort 
able  and  we  would  really  like  to  have  you." 

But  as  Jean  began  to  thank  her,  Catherine's  manner 
changed. 

"Matter  of  business  and — general  comfort,"  she 
said  in  her  short,  snappy  way.  "Such  a  lot  of  people 
wouldn't  fit." 

"Then  I'm  a  candidate  for  the  vacancy?" 

"We'll  notify  you  formally  but  I  guess,  if  you  want 
to,  you  can  be  one  of  The  Theses?" 

"The  Theses?" 

"As  against  the  rest  of  the  world,  The  Thoses. 
Gerte's  distinction." 

Jean  laughed  remembering  the  Tiger,  not  so  unlike 
the  thin,  dark  Gerte,  and  wondered  why  people  who 
dabbled  in  the  arts  needed  these  meaningless  distinc 
tions  between  themselves  and  others. 

But  later,  as  she  lay  on  the  couch  drawn  close  to 
the  open  window  in  the  attic,  and  looked  out  across  the 
buildings,  rising  in  the  outline  of  a  fever  chart  as  far 
as  she  could  see,  Jean  was  glad  that  she  had  met 


374,          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Catherine  and  that  she  was  going  to  live  here  with 
them.  And  although  she  knew  that,  at  any  previous 
period  of  her  life,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
her,  now,  contrasted  with  the  lonely  nights  staring  out 
to  the  river  after  Martha's  death,  the  paid  hominess 
of  Katy's  effort,  the  smoothly  running  indifference  of 
these  women  would  be  pleasant.  She  was  beginning  a 
new  life,  in  a  new  manner.  And  as  she  dropped  to 
sleep,  Jean  had  a  hazy  notion  of  owing  something  to 
Franklin  Herrick. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR 

THE  next  day  Jean  went  back  to  work.  Charlotte 
Stetson,  who  had  taken  her  place,  tried  to  evince 
genuine  pleasure  but  could  not  quite  convey  it.  Jean 
felt  that  she  had  been  suitably  mourned  for  as  dead, 
and  that  this  sudden  and  unexpected  resurrection  was 
an  intrusion  in  questionable  taste.  So  it  was  with 
mingled  amusement  and  curiosity  that,  about  eleven 
o'clock,  Jean  knocked  on  Jerome  Stuart's  door,  and, 
at  his  short  "Come  in,"  entered. 

"Well— I'll  be "  he  had  risen,  but  dropped  back 

into  his  chair  with  an  amended  "Thank  God." 

Jean  laughed.  "Now  I  do  feel  like  a  returned 
corpse.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  written  but  it  neve* 
occurred  to  me." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't.  Nothing  exciting  has  hap 
pened  for  weeks,  and  I  always  did  like  a  surprise." 

"I'm  glad  you  take  it  that  way.  Charlotte  Stetson 
made  me  feel  that  I  ought  to  creep  back  into  my 
tomb.  She -" 

"Oh,  to "  Jerome  Stuart  broke  off,  realizing 

that  he  was  about  to  say  aloud  what  he  had  so  often 
said  in  the  last  eight  months,  "To  the  devil  with  Miss 
Stetson,"  and  added  clumsily,  "To  be  quite  honest, 
you  know,  it  was  only  a  kind  of  surface  surprise.  I've 
always  known  you  would  come  back." 

There  was  no  conceit  of  assurance  in  the  tone. 
This  quiet  man  who  did  things  quietly  had 
learned.  Perhaps  he,  too,  had  run  away  from  life 
once  and  come  back. 

"Thank  you,"  Jean  said,  following  her  own  train 
of  thought,  and  Jerome  Stuart  seemed  to  understand. 

375 


376  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

There  was  a  short  pause  and  then  he  said,  smiling: 

"Well?" 

"Well,  begin  at  the  beginning.  What  has  been  go 
ing  on  in  the  world?" 

"How  much  do  you  know?  I  suppose  you  know 
about  the  Sweat  Shop  law?" 

"No.  Did  it  go  over?  I  am  glad.  No,  really  I 
don't  know  a  thing  that's  been  going  on." 

Jerome  Stuart  handed  her  a  bunch  of  clippings,  but 
Jean  could  not  focus  her  attention  on  them,  because 
she  felt  that  the  man  before  her  was  studying  her 
quietly.  He  might  have  known  that  she  could  re 
turn  because  he  knew  that  one  didn't  quit  unless  one 
were  a  coward  clear  through.  But  the  details  puzzled 
him. 

She  handed  back  the  clippings.  "Great.  After  all 
California  is  a  long  way  off  and  they  have  their  own 
problems  out  there." 

"Of  course.  What  are  they  doing?"  Jerome  ac 
cepted  the  implication,  as  Jean  intended,  that  she  had 
been  working.  She  began  to  sketch  the  Hill  House, 
what  they  were  trying  to  do,  and  Mary.  But  the 
doctor  bulked  larger  than  any  of  it,  and  Jerome 
knew  that  this  woman  meant  much  to  Jean.  He  ^iad 
never  thought  of  Jean  with  the  emotional  feminine  as 
sociations  of  most  women,  with  the  "best  triends"  his 
daughter  Alice  had  had  since  babyhood,  and  this  new 
point  of  view  held  him  to  the  exclusion  of  any  interest 
in  the  Hill  House  or  its  accomplishments.  It  was  a 
new  background  against  which  this  large,  unemotional 
person  moved  in  human  intimacies.  So  that,  when  a 
chance  remark  of  Jean's  introduced  some  young  college 
girls  who  were  working  with  Dr.  Mary,  Jerome  found 
himself  talking  of  Alice,  her  approaching  marriage, 
her  amusing  frankness  about  life,  the  mixture  of  old- 
fashioned  love  and  modern  feminism  that  Alice  called 
"seeing  life  clearly  and  seeing  it  whole." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  377 

It  was  after  one,  when  the  stenographer  knocked  on 
the  door  for  her  afternoon  batch  of  letters,  and  re 
called  to  Jerome  that  he  had  an  appointment  at  two- 
thirty  and  had  not  yet  been  to  lunch.  He  gave  the  girl 
her  work  and  turned  to  Jean. 

"I  haven't  even  begun  on  our  latest  and  I  have  an 
appointment  at  half-past  two.  Couldn't  we  have  lunch 
somewhere?  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Mike  Flannery. 
He's  the  alderman  who's  going  to  give  us  the  most 
trouble." 

The  suggestion  fitted  in  with  the  intimacy  of  their 
long  talk,  so  that  Jean  did  not  realize  she  was  doing 
anything  unusual,  until  Jerome  drew  out  her  chair  in 
a  corner  of  an  attractive  tea  room.  Then  all  the  teas 
and  luncheons  she  had  had  with  Gregory  in  just  such 
rooms  marshaled  before  her,  and  Jean  wished  she  had 
not  come.  In  time  it  would  be  easy,  but  now  it  was 
difficult  to  keep  her  attention  fixed)  and  the  luncheon 
began  in  a  restraint  that  Jerome  felt,  but  whose  origin 
puzzled  him.  It  was  not  until  the  meal  was  over  that, 
in  the  relief  of  its  ending,  Jean's  mood  lightened  to  its 
earlier  cheerfulness. 

"We'll  give  Mike  Flannery  a  run  for  his  money  and 
the  surprise  of  his  life,"  she  said,  as  the  waitress  de 
parted  with  the  bill. 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  a  few  days'  grace  to  get 
rested  and  set  up  the  lares  and  penates." 

"There's  not  a  penate  to  set  up.  I  am  sharing  a 
house  with  four  other  women  and  all  the  lares  are  in 
place.  I'm  with  Catherine  Lee  and  Nan  Bonham5 
Brooklyn  Relief." 

"Grove  Street!" 

"Yes.     Do  you  know  them?" 

*Ferome  laughed  until  Jean  demanded: 

"'Why?     Are  we  very  ridiculous?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.    No,  of  course  not.    But  Grove 


378          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Street  is  the  skeleton  in  my  family  closet.  You  give 
teas  during  the  winter." 

"Do  we?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  large  teas  where  celebrities  and  semi- 
celebrities  are  handed  about  with  the  cake.  Alice 
adores  them,  drags  Sidney  to  almost  every  one,  Ho 
keep  his  social  viewpoint  broad,'  and  nags  me  to  death 
to  go  too." 

"I  take  it  that  you  don't  often  oblige." 

"Not  if  I  can  escape,  although,  as  teas,  they  are 
the  best  of  their  kind.  Catherine  Lee's  a  hustler  and 
she  does  manage  to  root  out  talent.  She  gets  her  busi 
ness  tied  up  with  her  social  life  and  so,  when  she  wants 
anything,  she  can  generally  put  her  finger  on  some 
frequenter  of  the  teas  who  can  get  it  for  her." 

Jean  laughed,  and  together  they  went  out  into  the 
street. 

"To-morrow  then?    And  Mike  Flannery." 

"To-morrow." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE 

THE  machinery  of  the  house  on  Grove  Street 
moved  smoothly  and  Jean  was  more  physically 
comfortable  than  she  had  been  at  any  time  since 
Martha's  death.  And  although,  at  first,  she  sensed 
very  keenly  in  the  lives  of  these  women  the  undercurrent 
of  loneliness  that  had  drawn  them  together,  and  the 
accidental  nature  of  their  intimacy,  in  time,  she  ac 
cepted  it  without  analysis.  It  would  have  been  tragic 
if  they  had  been  conscious  of  it,  but  Jean  was  sure 
that  Catherine  alone  ever  felt  a  quality  of  chill  in  this 
perfect  freedom  of  which  they  were  so  proud,  and 
without  definitely  wording  it,  felt,  in  this  perfection  of 
adjustment,  the  harmony  of  indifference. 

Philip  came  often  to  dinner,  and  soon  Jean  accepted 
his  boisterous  manner.  It  so  fitted  the  man's  nature 
that  it  was  perfect  in  its  way,  like  the  capers  of  a 
puppy.  It  was  only  when  Philip,  in  his  unconscious 
ness  of  the  fitness  of  things,  capered  before  others,  as 
he  had  on  the  night  of  her  arrival,  that  one  objected 
to  his  clambering  over  strangers.  Jean  saw  noth 
ing  humorous  in  Philip's  performances,  but  when 
she  could,  pretended  an  amusement  that  delighted  Nan. 
Still,  she  always  felt  that  in  these  moments  Catherine 
was  watching  and  was  never  quite  deceived.  Nor  was 
she  sure  that  her  kindly  tolerance  of  his  horseplay  de 
ceived  Philip.  Often,  before  a  more  than  usually  out 
rageous  effort,  Philip  seemed  to  single  her  out  with  a 
defiant  glance  as  if  to  say,  "There  goes  your  stupid 
pretense  of  dignity.  It  isn't  worth  keeping*"  He 
was  always  talking  about  the  "big,  simple  realities" 

379 


380          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

and  urging  marriage  and  babies,  but  he  knew  no 
women  outside  the  household  and  seemed  quite  content. 
He  laughed  at  Catherine's  affection  for  Tony,  a 
musical  protege  of  recent  discovery,  thereby  annoying 
Jean  greatly,  until  she  discovered  him  making  Tony 
promise  not  to  tell  who  had  given  him  the  new  suit. 
He  did  not  want  Tony  to  tell,  but  he  would  have  liked 
the  house  to  find  out.  He  often  did  things  like  this 
and  then  resented  it  when  no  one  knew.  He  annoyed 
Jean  without  interesting  her,  but  at  the  end  of  a  month 
she  found  she  had  summed  him  up  more  definitely  than 
any  other  member  of  the  house — he  had  big  impulses, 
small  thoughts  and  no  will  at  all.  After  Jean  had 
reached  this  decision  her  manner  changed  toward  him. 
She  treated  him  with  greater  patience  and  at  times 
with  respect. 

In  the  evenings,  Jean  had  many  appointments  to 
organize  working  women's  associations  or  speak  at 
meetings.  The  idea  of  a  national  Congress  of  women, 
which  after  attaining  the  dimensions  of  a  group  of 
civic  leagues,  had  lain  dormant  in  the  bitter  loneliness 
of  Jean's  personal  life,  woke  again.  A  certain  quality 
of  excitement  and  vigor  was  gone  from  Jean's  con 
ception  of  it  but  she  accepted  the  change.  She  knew 
that  no  plan  would  ever  have  the  same  keenness  as  in 
the  days  before  Gregory's  going.  Something  had  gone 
out  of  her  then,  and  now  all  purpose  was  calm  and  sub 
dued,  like  the  staid  friendships  of  middle  life  against 
the  idealization  of  youth.  She  never  willingly  looked 
back  to  Gregory's  letter.  But  she  no  longer  viewed 
it  as  a  terrible  pit  into  which  her  life  had  dropped. 
It  was  a  wall  dividing  the  past  from  the  present ;  turn 
ing  her  back  upon  it  Jean  faced  the  future.  And  the 
surest  measure  she  had  of  her  reward  was  the  feeling 
that  came  again  into  the  earth  and  sky  and  hills.  Now, 
on  the  out-of-town  trips  she  had  sometimes  to  take,  she 
found  the  old,  living,  personal  spirit  in  the  earth  come 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  381 

back.  It  was  as  if,  in  the  days  of  her  loving,  the  earth 
had  withdrawn  its  unneeded  comfort.  Now,  the  old, 
old  earth,  kind  and  understanding,  came  back  into  its 
own. 

On  Sundays,  Jean  took  long  walks,  most  often  alone, 
sometimes  with  Nan  when  she  could  not  refuse.  But  at 
forty-two,  freed  from  dependent  relatives  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  Nan  had  an  excited  childish  exuberance 
about  her  that  rather  bored  Jean.  She  often  wanted 
to  urge  Nan  to  snatch  at  life  before  it  was  too  late, 
grasp  some  reality  besides  her  love  and  admiration  for 
the  clumsy,  capering  Philip.  But  when  she  thought 
about  it  seriously,  she  did  not  know  what  it  was  she 
would  urge  Nan  to  snatch.  The  knowledge  and  dis 
illusion  of  experience,  where  now  Nan  had  curiosity 
and,  perhaps,  hope? 

Catherine,  Jean  rarely  saw  except  at  meals,  and 
Beth's  engagements  with  men,  mostly  younger  than 
herself,  kept  her  away  a  great  deal.  But,  on  the  few 
evenings  that  Jean  was  home,  it  came  to  be  the  custom 
for  Gerte  to  drop  in  to  the  attic.  And  no  matter  what 
the  subject,  Gerte  soon  led  it  to  her  own  work,  burbling 
on  about  her  plots,  clothing  the  meager  incidents  in 
long  words.  Jean  often  wondered  why  Gerte  wrote  or 
how  she  sold  what  she  did,  she  had  so  little  insight,  no 
imagination,  and  was  so  empty  of  any  deep  experience 
of  her  own.  At  thirty-two,  Gerte  was  pitifully  curious 
about  love  and  sex  and  marriage,  and  Jean  was  sure 
that  she  thought  almost  constantly  about  these  things. 
She  pitied  Gerte  but  never  quite  liked  her. 

Twice  Jean  had  dinner  at  the  old  Stuart  farmhouse 
on  Staten  Island,  and  these  evenings  stood  out  from 
all  other  evenings  in  a  warm  glow.  She  and  Jerome 
united  to  tease  Alice,  so  sure  of  herself  and  so  un 
tried,  but  she  was  almost  as  glad  as  Jerome  of  the  girl's 
indestructible  optimism.  Sometimes  she  and  Jerome 
referred  to  it  afterwards  in  the  office,  and  this  happy 


382  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

comradeship  between  the  quiet  man  and  the  big,  blonde 
girl,  seemed  to  Jean  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things 
she  had  ever  seen.  It  made  her  feel  nearer  to  Jerome 
Stuart  than  the  successful  accomplishment  of  any  plan 
and  softened  the  resentment  toward  her  own  bleak 
girlhood.  She  often  wondered  how  Jerome  would  stand 
the  loneliness  of  Alice's  marriage  and  sometimes,  for  a 
moment,  Alice's  going  so  eagerly  out  to  the  happiness 
Jerome's  loving  care  had  made  possible,  seemed  cruelly 
selfish,  until  Jean  thought  of  Martha  and  smiled.  How 
imperceptibly  one's  viewpoint  glided  from  youth  to 
age,  and  how  alike  was  all  youth  and  how  alike  all  age. 
In  middle  life  the  wandering  paths  of  youth  met,  and 
when  one  reached  that  spot,  one  picked  up  the  waiting 
burden  of  loneliness  and  understanding  and  staggered 
away  with  it,  groaning  or  smiling  according  to  one's 
pride.  She  rather  thought  that  Jerome  would  smile. 

Early  in  April  she  and  Jerome  began  to  plan  a 
summer  campaign  against  the  cheap  dance-halls  and 
mediocre  concerts  on  the  piers  that  furnished  the  prin 
cipal  recreation  of  the  poor  in  summer.  Sometimes 
Jerome  got  quite  violent  about  it. 

"There's  no  reason  there  shouldn't  be  something 
worth  while  and  we'll  give  it  to  them." 

"We  will  that — whether  they  want  it  or  not/* 

Jerome  laughed.  "When  you  take  that  tone  you 
make  me  think  of  Alice  planning  Sidney's  future.  I 
always  feel  so  heavy  and  masculine  and  unnecessary. 
You  make  me  feel  as  if  my  greatest  privilege  will  be 
to  trail  along  behind  such  energy." 

"And  when  you  take  that  note,  you  make  me  feel 
flippant  and  feminine  and  superficial." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  just  feel  Machiavellian  and 
subtle.  I  know." 

"Solomon !  Well,  no  matter  what  your  feelings  are, 
you're  not  going  to  shift  any  responsibility  because 
of  them." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          $83 

"I  don't  want  to.  I'm  perfectly  willing,  eager  even, 
to  pilot  the  way  from  pier  to  pier,  dance-hall  to  dance- 
hall.  I  may  even  make  small,  tentative  suggestions, 
which  will  tickle  me  to  death  to  have  considered." 
Jerome  Stuart's  eyes  twinkled  in  a  way  that  had  once 
reminded  Jean  of  Gregory,  and  had  hurt.  Now  she 
liked  it. 

The  teas,  dreaded  by  Jerome,  Jean  easily  escaped. 
No  one  took  offense  at  her  preference  nor  made  a 
personal  matter  of  it.  If  there  was  no  consideration 
of  each  other  in  this  scheme  of  freedom,  neither  was 
there  any  claim.  It  was  not  until  late  in  April  that 
Catherine  put  the  matter  of  the  last  tea  as  a  personal 
request. 

"It's  the  yearly  Round-up,"  she  explained,  "and  is 
really  a  matter  of  business.  This  year  it's  specially 
important  to  me.  I  have  several  protegees  I  want  to 
launch  and  now  I've  got  the  woman  who  can  do  it. 
Mrs.  J.  William  Dalton " 

"Who!" 

"Exactly,  if  she  makes  you  feel  like  that.  There 
could  not  be  two.  Besides,  I  hear  that  hers  used 
to  be  The  Poor.  Now  it's  Art,  but  when  she  gets  them 
both  combined,  she  just  runs  amuck.  That's  what  I 
intend  her  to  do.  Tony  Rimaldi  is  fourteen,  the  old 
est  of  ten  in  a  Mott  Street  tenement,  and  if  you  had 
come  to  the  other  teas  you  would  know  that  Tony  is 
a  genius.  He  plays  the  violin  so  that  even  I  get 
woozly  inside,  and  Philip  has  been  known  to  cry.  Peter 
Poloff's  nineteen,  and  although  he  will  never  equal 
Tony,  he  has  enough  of  the  real  thing  to  make  him  a 
worth-while  pianist,  and  he's  never  had  a  chance. 
Dalton's  going  to  be  the  motif  of  this  round-up  and 
afterwards  she's  going  to  sponsor  a  concert  for  my 
prodigies  and,  zip,  their  future's  settled !  But  every 
one  of  you  has  got  to  help.  Dalton  simply  can't  func- 


384          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

tion  without  a  backdrop,  and  we're  going  to  give  her 
one." 

"Willingly,  but  what  can  I  do?" 

"Come.  She  hasn't  forgotten  her  sociological  days 
yet  and,  besides,  the  publicity  you  and  Stuart  are 
creating  about  legalizing  illegitimate  children  hasn't 
escaped  her.  He  has  to  come  too.  We'll  give  her  the 
whole  shooting  match,  sociology,  art,  pedagogy, 
science,  society,  anything  we  can  get  our  fingers  on. 
You  will,  won't  you?" 

"Certainly." 

"And  that  Stuart  hermit?  His  daughter  can't  per 
suade  him,  but  perhaps  you  can." 

Jean  laughed.  "What  Alice  can't  do  with  her 
father  hasn't  much  hope  for  any  one  else.  But  I'll 
try." 

And  for  the  next  ten  days  Jean  tried  to  think  of 
some  way  to  trap  Jerome  into  promising.  But  Jean's 
social  tact  was  most  unsubtle  and  she  could  think  of 
nothing  but  a  point-blank  request.  To  her  relief, 
Jerome  brought  up  the  subject  himself.  It  was  only 
a  few  days  before  the  tea,  when  he  said,  with  a  mis 
chievous  grin: 

"Well,  how's  the  Round-up  coming  on?" 

"Famously.  The  branding  irons  are  heating. 
We've  got  you  all  corralled." 

"Not  a  loophole  in  the  stockade.     I  know  that." 

"Not  a  wire  loose.     Don't  try  to  find  one." 

"I  haven't  the  least  intention.  I  wouldn't  miss  it 
for  the  world." 

"What!" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  it's  no  longer  the  distinction 
it  was  to  have  no  opinion  on  Tony's  genius.  You 
haven't  heard  him  either,  have  you?" 

Jean  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  they  laughed 
together  in  the  way  that  had  come  to  make  them  both 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          385 

feel  that  somehow  they  had  outwitted  the  world 
together. 

"And  I  was  commissioned  to  gag  and  bind  you  and 
drag  you  there!  I  feel  cheated.  I  must  do  something. 
How  about  that  person  with  the  theory  on  The  Con 
centration  of  the  Point  of  Interest,  who  did  those 
weird  wall  paintings  for  the  Educational  Exhibit?  And 
that  psychoanalyist?  I  don't  think  Dalton's  got  to 
psycho-analysis  yet  and  it  would  tickle  her  to  death. 
Could  you  get  them?" 

"Perhaps.  All  right.  I  promise.  Only  you  must 
promise  that  Dalton  won't  get  at  them  too  heavily.  I 
like  the  men,  both  of  them,  and  I  don't  want  to  spend 
the  rest  of  my  life  paying  up  the  obligation  of  this 
tea." 

"I'll  rescue  them  personally,  if  I  see  them  in  dan 
ger.  I  can't  promise  more." 

"That  will  do.  Only  don't  neglect  me  in  your  kind 
offices.  I  still  labor  under  the  delusion,  in  spite  of 
Alice,  that  the  main  interest  of  a  tea  is  the  food." 

"Don't  worry.  I'll  watch  over  you  and  your  diges 
tion,  too;  the  refreshments  are  going  to  be  a  wonder." 

"On  those  conditions  I  expect  to  enjoy  myself." 
And  with  the  Gregory-grin  Jerome  went  back  to  his 
own  office. 

But  on  the  following  Sunday,  when  Jean  entered 
the  already  crowded  rooms,  she  saw  only  Alice  and 
Sidney  in  the  group  gathered  about  Tony.  Jerome 
was  nowhere  in  sight.  Jean  had  deliberately  waited 
until  she  had  heard  Tony  tuning  up,  so  that  now,  as 
the  room  rustled  to  expectant  silence,  she  slipped  into 
the  shadow  of  the  heavy  curtains  drawn  to  assist  the 
candle-light  and  took  in  the  scene  with  quiet  amuse 
ment.  They  all  looked  so  different  somehow:  Gerte 
in  a  slithery  green  thing  that  would  have  delighted 
The  Tiger ;  Nan  like  a  lovely  duchess  in  palest  lavender 
and  Catherine  in  severe  and  expensive  black.  Jean 


386          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

recalled  Mary's  "humans  functioning  socially"  and  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  watching  some  distinct  psychological 
process. 

"Fine  show,  isn't  it?"  Philip  stepped  from  the 
deeper  shadow  of  the  curtains  unexpectedly,  but  the 
understanding  in  his  eyes  merged  so  with  Jean's  own 
thoughts  that  his  being  there  did  not  surprise. 

"Really,  clothes  are  ridiculous,"  she  whispered  back, 
feeling  a  comradely  nearness  to  him  in  this  identity  of 
impression.  "Perfectly  harmless  material  cut  and 
slashed  into  the  wildest  shapes.  Take  any  one  of 
those  gowns  and  look  at  it  long  enough  and  it  gets 
screamingly  funny.  Look."  In  her  own  interest  and 
Philip's  understanding,  Jean  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm, 
turning  him  slightly  toward  a  friend  of  Gerte's,  a  red- 
haired,  slender  girl  in  a  tunic  embroidered  in  green  and 
gold  dragons,  fastened  with  cords  and  blobs  of  coral 
beads.  "Now,  why  is  that  rig  necessary  because  she 
sculps,  and  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  did  it  start  out 
in  life  to  be?" 

Philip  looked  as  Jean  directed,  but  his  eyes  moved 
independently,  for  the  rest  of  his  body  was  concentrat 
ing  at  the  point  where  Jean's  fingers  rested  lightly  on 
his  arm. 

"Li  Hung  Chang's  combing  jacket,"  he  offered  after 
a  moment,  when  Jean  had  removed  her  hand.  Jean 
laughed  and  was  just  going  to  ask  him  what  he  thought 
of  some  one  else,  when  Tony  began  to  play. 

Jean  still  stood  close  to  Philip,  almost  touching  him, 
but  after  a  few  bars  she  forgot  him,  the  crowded  rooms, 
the  too  strong  fragrance  of  expensive  flowers.  She  for 
got  that  she  did  not  really  like  Tony,  petted  and  spoiled 
by  over-attention.  She  did  not  see  the  look  of  satisfied 
accomplishment  on  Catherine's  face,  nor  Felix  Arhn 
scowling  his  deepest  foreign  scowl  of  approval;  nor 
Mrs.  Dalton  sitting  quietly,  her  jeweled  hands  in  her 
lap.  She  did  not  even  hear  the  music  distinctly.  It  ere- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          387 

ated  about  her  a  medium  into  which  she  dissolved  in  feel 
ing;  and  when  her  brain  registered,  it  was  not  notes  or 
present  impressions,  but  memories  of  the  first  happy 
days  with  Herrick,  and  deep  moments  of  love  with 
Gregory.  Her  face  softened,  so  that  Philip,  stealing 
glances,  felt  his  throat  tighten,  and  his  eyes  were  hot 
and  moist.  He  wanted  the  music  to  go  on  forever,  to 
keep  Jean  close  with  that  look  on  her  face.  And  he 
ached  for  it  to  stop,  before  his  hands  should  reach  to 
her.  When  it  stopped,  Jean  would  be  again  the  hard, 
clear-headed  woman  who  scorned  him  and  tried  so 
hard  sometimes  not  to  show  it.  He  had  hated  her  often 
for  her  conceited  assumption  of  superiority,  but  he 
knew  now  that  he  could  never  hate  her  again.  That 
slightly  quivering  mouth  had  taken  his  weapons  from 
him. 

The  music  ended.  Philip  turned  to  Jean,  but  she 
was  acknowledging  the  efforts  of  a  tall  man  with  gray 
hair  and  smiling  eyes  to  negotiate  the  buzzing  groups 
and  reach  her.  In  another  instant  Jean  was  introduc 
ing  him. 

"Mr.  Fletcher,  let  me  present  Jerome  Stuart." 

As  they  shook  hands,  Philip  felt  Jerome  size  him  up 
and  dismiss  him.  For  a  few  moments  Philip  stood 
wihere  he  was  and  then,  unnoticed  either  by  Jean  or 
Jerome,  moved  away. 

Tony  played  twice  more  and  when  he  laid  aside  his 
violin,  Jean  and  Jerome  looked  quietly  at  each  other. 

"It  makes  me  feel  like  two  cents,"  Jerome  whispered 
and  Jean  nodded. 

"It's  usually  the  way,  isn't  it?" 

"Nearly  always.  I  haven't  enough  conceit  left  even 
to  tease  Alice.  I  shall  confess." 

"Come  and  do  it  now.    I  should  like  to  hear  you " 

But,  before  they  could  reach  Alice,  Mrs.  Dalton  spied 
Jean  and  billowed  down  upon  her.  In  vain  Jean  tried 
to  insert  Jerome  between  them,  dragging  in  every  pub- 


388          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

lie  effort  in  which  he  had  been  concerned  for  the  last 
year.  Mrs.  Dalton  heard  none  of  it.  Catherine  was 
right.  She  had  not  forgotten  her  sociological  days. 

"It  had  such  definite  results,"  she  cascaded,  quite 
lost  in  this  renewal  of  acquaintance  with  the  head  of 
the  Women's  Civic  Leagues.  "Such  definite,  concrete 
results,  don't  you  know.  While  this  other — heredity 
is  such  a  factor,  don't  you  think?  One  never  knows 
what  strange  strain  will  crop  out.  Genius  has  so 
many  strands  intermingled.  Now,  take  our  own  little 
Tony.  What  are  we  going  to  do  about  that  impossible 
family  of  his?  We  must  rescue  him.  We  simply  can't 
let  him  smother  there  in  those  hideous  rooms." 

"They  are  pretty  impossible,"  Jean  conceded  with 
a  frown.  "But  it's  the  very  best  possible  thing  for 
him  at  present.  How  long  it  will  be,  I  don't  know, 
and  in  the  end,  of  course,  he  will  go.  He  would,  even  if 
no  one  did  anything  for  him.  But  now,  he  is  just  one 
quivering  plate  for  impressions  and,  although  he  may 
never  realize  it  himself,  it  will  mean  a  lot — the  hot, 
crowded  rooms,  the  crying  babies,  the  fierce  fight  for 
life  and  the  inherent  joyousness  of  his  people  that 
nothing  can  quite  kill.  Out  of  this  jumble  Tony  ought 
to  draw  into  himself  something  that  nothing  else  could 
give.  He  comes  from  the  People  and  he  ought  to  giv,* 
his  gift  back  to  them." 

"Oh,"  Mrs.  Dalton  gasped,  but  Jean  went  on  impa 
tiently:  "There's  such  a  lot  of  talk  these  days  about 
The  People  and  their  Power  and  most  of  us  don't  know 
what  we  mean  by  it.  We  hear  such  a  lot  about  the 
Will  of  the  People,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  People,  and 
the  Literature  and  Soul  of  the  People,  and  we  are 
beginning  to  hear  about  Music  of  the  People.  But 
here  in  America  it  seems  to  mean  negro  melodies  or 
Indian  lyrics,  the  plaints  of  a  dying  race.  Why 
shouldn't  there  be  modern,  industrial  music,  not  the 
blaring  of  factory  whistles,  but  the  spirit  of  industrial- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          389 

ism,  the  life  of  the  immigrants,  the  economic  fight,  the 
whole  struggle  of  this  great  Melting  Pot — sound  etch 
ings,  like  Fennel's  skyscrapers  and  bridges.  Tony 
ought  to  be  able  to  do  it.  He  has  the  genius,  the  her 
itage  and  the  environment." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Herrick,  you  must  come  and 
talk  to  the  Lost  Art.  You  put  it  all  so  vividly,  but 
then  you  always  did.  Do  you  remember,  in  the  old 
days " 

"Pardon  me,"  Jean  interposed  hastily,  "but  Miss 
Lee  is  signaling  me,"  and,  feeling  that  she  was  not 
playing  fair,  Jean  escaped.  A  few  moments  later  she 
looked  back  and  saw  Jerome,  whom  Mrs.  Dalton  had 
at  last  connected  with  the  Sweat  Shop  law,  being 
drowned  under  a  similar  cataract,  to  the  great  amuse 
ment  of  Alice,  who  stood  by,  making  not  the  slightest 
effort  to  save  him. 

It  was  Catherine  who  released  him  at  last.  The  next 
moment,  Jean  was  barricaded  between  two  tea  trays 
and  Jerome  was  looking  at  her  in  real  reproof. 

"Well,  have  you  any  decent  excuse?  Is  that  the 
way  you  keep  a  promise?" 

"Promise?     Did  I  make  a  promise?" 

"You  certainly  did.  You  let  me  suppose  that  I  was 
not  to  be  thrown  to  the  lions  without  a  saving  effort  on 
your  part.  And  then  you  went  and  threw  me  your 
self." 

"But  she  would  have  gotten  you  in  a  little  while, 
anyhow." 

"You  can't  prove  it.  I've  dodged  that  kind  for  many 
years  now,  long  before  you  knew  what  a  Civic  League 
was." 

"I  thought  this  was  your  first  tea,"  Jean  parried. 

"All  the  more  reason  for  seeing  that  I  enjoyed  it. 
I  may  come  to  others." 

"You  know  you're  safe  on  that  score.  This  is  the 
last." 


390         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Well,  you've  got  to  atone,  in  some  way,  for  that 
performance.  Will  you  come  to  supper?" 

"Supper  I" 

Jerome  smiled.  "I  don't  care  if  you've  eaten  a 
whole  cake.  I  hope  you  have.  Your  punishment  will 
be  no  worse  than  mine.  I  promised  Alice  that  I  would 
trot  along  with  her  and  Sidney^  to  a  little  joint  they 
always  go  to  after  these  functions.  How  much  longer 
will  this  last?  The  music  is  over,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is.  But  this  may  dribble  along  till  almost  eight 
and  there  are  always  a  few  to  stay  and  eat  the  scraps.  I 
believe  Catherine  expects  you  and  Alice  and  Sidney 
to  be  among  the  chosen  few." 

"Don't  tell  Alice;  I  rather  fancy  the  little  joint." 
Jerome's  raised  brows  indicated  Mrs.  Dalton,  and  Jean 
nodded. 

"How  soon  can  you  slip  away?     In  ten  minutes?" 

"I'll  try.  Go  over  and  keep  Dalton  anchored  where 
she  is  and  I'll  start  my  escape." 

Jerome  obeyed  and  Jean  began  to  make  her  way  out, 
stopping  only  when  she  was  forced  to.  Once  she  was 
halted  close  to  where  Philip  Fletcher  stood,  apart,  si 
lent,  his  mouth  drawn  downward  like  a  hurt  child's. 
As  Jean  passed  close,  he  moved  toward  her,  but  some 
one  else  claimed  her  attention,  and  Philip  went  on  into 
the  hall.  He  watched  for  Jean  but  she  went  upstairs 
by  a  back  way,  and  when  she  came  down  he  saw  she 
was  ready  to  go  out. 

"Will  you  tell  Catherine  that  I'm  going  out  to  sup 
per?  I  tried  to  get  at  her  but  she  is  too  busy." 

"If  I  see  her,"  Philip  replied  and  knew  that  Jean, 
already  joined  by  Jerome  Stuart  and  Alice  and  Sid 
ney,  did  not  hear.  They  left  the  house  together  and 
Philip  stood  staring  at  the  door  Jean  had  closed  so 
quietly,  like  a  child  slipping  away  on  an  adventure. 
Across  the  threshold  of  the  living-room,  Catherine 
caught  the  look  on  Philip's  face,  broke  off  a  sentence 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          591 

in  the  middle,  then  grasped  the  thread  almost  instantly, 
and  went  on. 

When  the  household  and  the  Chosen  Few  sat  down 
to  the  scraps,  there  was  much  speculation  on  Gerte's 
part  as  to  what  had  become  of  Philip.  But  Catherine 
said  nothing. 


CHAPTER   FORTY-SIX 

PHILIP  did  not  come  for  a  week.  Every  day,  after 
the  first  three,  Nan  rang  up  the  office,  but  either 
Philip  had  just  left  or  had  not  yet  come.  Every  night 
Gerte  wondered  why,  until  Catherine  finally  advised 
her  to  write  if  she  was  so  anxious.  And  then,  on  the 
second  Wednesday,  Philip  appeared.  He  came  late, 
in  his  most  boisterous  mood.  Gerte  fussed  over  him, 
touched  him,  patted  his  shoulder,  insisted  that  they 
had  been  worried  to  death  about  him.  Even  Beth 
showed  a  slight  sense  of  restored  comfort,  as  if  some 
special  piece  of  furniture  to  which  she  had  grown  ac 
customed  had  been  replaced.  Nan  was  almost  as  ex 
uberant  as  Philip.  Catherine  alone  refused  to  confess 
any  anxiety  or  relief. 

Jean  fancied  that  Catherine's  attitude  interested 
Philip,  and  that  in  some  way  he  had  changed.  His 
hilarity  was  still  diffused  to  include  them  all,  but  when 
he  spoke  to  Jean  directly,  he  seemed  to  clear  a  little 
space  of  this  boisterous  litter,  to  enter  with  her  an 
interval  of  reality.  Jean  was  too  busy,  however,  with 
her  own  work  and  helping  Catherine  with  the  coming 
concert  to  give  it  much  attention. 

The  concert  was  to  be  on  Friday  and  on  Monday 
Jean  had  her  secretary  send  out  a  list  of  complimen 
tary  tickets.  Jerome  came  in  while  Jean  was  dictating 
names,  waited  until  she  had  finished,  and,  when  the 
girl  had  gone,  said: 

"Well?" 

"Well?" 

"I  didn't  hear  mine;  don't  I  get  a  ticket?" 

392 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  393 

"Do  you  want  to  go?" 

Jerome  smiled.  "You  can't  make  me  mad  that  way, 
not  a  scrap.  You're  in  league  with  Alice.  I  can  see 
that,  but  you  can't  get  a  rise  out  of  me  that  way.  I'm 
going  to  the  concert  because " 

"Never  mind.  Don't  bother  to  invent  a  reason. 
You're  going  because  you  want  to." 

"Oh,  feminine  intuition,  deep,  unfathomable  and  al 
ways  right!  Exactly.  I'm  going  because  I  want  to. 
Do  you  know  a  better  reason?" 

"None.     What  did  Alice  say?" 

"She  doesn't  know  yet.  I  can't  reform  all  at  once. 
I'm  going  to  appear  and  astonish  her." 

Jean  took  a  ticket  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Between  Alice  and  myself." 

Jerome  fingered  the  ticket  as  if  he  were  about  to  say 
something,  didn't,  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket. 

"But  please  don't  forget  that  some  one  has  to  be 
responsible  for  me.  With  Tony  I  guess  I  shall  be  safe, 
but  with  that  Poloff  person  there  is  danger.  I  never 
know  when  the  end  of  one  of  those  classical  selections 
has  arrived  and  I  may  disgrace  you  by  clapping  at 
the  wrong  place." 

"Never  fear.    I'll  see  that  no  harm  comes  nigh  thee." 

"See  to  it  better  than  you  did  at  the  tea,"  Jerome 
shot  back  from  the  doorway  as  he  left. 

On  Friday,  Jean  did  not  go  to  the  office  at  all.  Gerte 
had  left  some  alterations  on  her  dress  until  the  last 
moment,  and  all  afternoon  an  excitable  French  seam 
stress  buzzed  about  the  house  like  a  gnat,  getting  in 
every  one's  way,  calling  incessantly  on  Le  Bon  Dieu 
for  needles  of  the  right  size,  her  thimble,  for  Madamoi- 
selle.  Catherine,  maddeningly  calm  in  any  confusion 
caused  by  others,  went  quietly  about,  saying  bitter, 
sarcastic  things  in  a  gentle  voice,  and  only  the  realiza- 


394          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

tion  that  this   evening  was   something  of  a  trial  for 
Catherine  prevented  them  from  retaliating  in  kind. 

Not  until  the  pickup  supper  was  over,  and  the  French 
gnat  gone,  did  peace  descend.  Then,  stretched  on  the 
couch  before  the  open  window  of  her  attic,  Jean  looked 
up  into  the  soft  spring  dusk  and  let  its  peace  wrap 
her.  The  little  stars  still  twinkled  with  some  of  the 
crisp,  business-like  twinkle  of  winter,  but  spring  had 
already  come.  Down  in  the  narrow  streets  it  was 
warm.  Soon  summer  would  be  there.  In  a  short  while, 
a  few  weeks  at  most,  the  house  would  be  empty  and  still 
as  it  was  now.  The  others  would  be  gone  on  their 
summer  vacations.  Jean  felt  that  she  would  like  the 
house,  alone  in  the  silence. 

There  was  barely  time  to  dress  when  Jean  at  last 
jumped  up  and  turned  on  the  light.  It  was  three  years 
since  Jean  had  worn  an  evening  dress  and  that  had 
been  a  very  simple  affair  compared  to  this.  Nan  had 
insisted  on  the  lowest  possible  neck  and  not  the  vestige 
of  a  sleeve.  As  Jean  hurried  into  the  filmy  chiffon, 
the  intricacies  of  its  hooking  amused  her. 

"I  feel  exactly  as  if  I  were  a  puzzle  putting  myself 
together." 

She  was  preening  anxiously  before  the  glass,  mak 
ing  sure  that  she  had  solved  the  puzzle  correctly,  when, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  her  knock,  Catherine 
hurried  in. 

"Just  this  one  hook,  please.  I  simply  can't  manage 
it  and  Gerte — why " 

Catherine  stopped  and  took  Jean  in  from  top  to 
toe  and  back. 

"Jean  Herrick,  are  you  going  to  wear  your  hair 
like  that?" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  it?" 

"It's  the  way  you  talked  to  that  labor  crowd  last 
Monday." 

"Surely.     I  always  do  it  that  way." 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  395 

"It's  impossible  with  that  gown.  Nine-tenths  of  you 
looks  like  the  real  thing  and  the  other  tenth " 

"You've  got  it  twisted.  One-tenth  looks  like  me  and 
the  other  nine-tenths  are  somebody  else.  I  feel — like 
an  idiot — in  this  thing." 

"You  come  darn  near  looking  like  it  with  your  hair 
that  way.  Fluff  it  up  some." 

"Oh,  come  on,  Catherine,  and  get  hooked.  I  don't 
know  how  to  fluff  it  and  wouldn't  if  I  did.  What  dif 
ference  does  it  make,  anyhow?" 

Catherine  looked  at  her  queerly.     "None — I  guess." 

Jean  finished  the  hooking.  "There,  you're  gowned 
enough  for  the  whole  bunch."  Catherine's  dress  was 
very  simple  and  apparently  made  no  effort  to  be  any 
thing  but  a  covering.  In  reality  it  was  a  frame  and 
shadow  box,  that  softened  the  sharpness  of  Catherine's 
face  to  piquancy,  made  her  thirty  instead  of  forty, 
mischievous  instead  of  caustic. 

"You're  ready,  then?"  Catherine  spoke  as  if  she 
were  giving  Jean  a  last  chance  to  redeem  the  hair, 
drawn  back  in  the  low,  tight  knot. 

"Been  ready  for  hours  and  mapped  out  a  whole 
summer  waiting." 

Catherine,  standing  near  the  switch,  turned  off  the 
light. 

"Do  you  mean  that,  too,  about  not  going  out  of 
town  all  summer?" 

"Yes,  except,  perhaps,  for  week-ends." 

Catherine  did  not  answer,  but  Jean  had  the  feeling 
of  something  moving  between  them  in  the  darkness. 
Then  Catherine  passed  into  the  hall. 

"Come  on.     There's  Philip  with  the  taxi." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN 

THE  others  had  already   arrived   when   Catherine, 
Jean  and  Philip  took  the  three  vacant  seats  on 
the  center  aisle.     From  her  box,  Mrs.  Dalton,  resplen 
dent  in  black  lace  and  diamonds,  recognized  the  ar 
rivals  and  waved  graciously. 

"Thinks  she's  slumming,  I  suppose.  We're  a  cross 
between  Mott  Street  and  Society.  What  do  you  sup 
pose  she'd  do  if  I  fingered  my  nose  at  her?" 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  Why  don't  you  try  and 
find  out."  Since  the  tea,  Jean  often  considered  Philip's 
foolish  suggestions  amiably. 

But  before  he  could  say  anything  more,  Alice  leaned 
across  the  vacant  seat. 

"Who  on  earth  is  this  one  for?  We've  been  guess 
ing  for  the  last  five  minutes." 

"Why  waste  so  much  energy?  Whoever  it  is  will 
probably  be  here  in  another  five  and  then " 

Standing  in  the  aisle,  Jerome  included  the  entire 
row  in  a  welcoming  nod,  took  the  vacant  seat  and 
looked  inquiringly  at  Alice. 

"Any  objections,  kiddie?" 

"Daddy  Stuart,  you  are  the  most  annoying  male 
thing  in  captivity." 

"Now,  Alice,  if  you  will  think  back,  slowly,  care 
fully  and  logically — a  most  difficult  performance  for 
you,  I  own,  you  will  remember  that  I  never  actually 
said  I  would  not  come." 

"You  nice  old  fake — I  don't  care  why  you  came  as 
long  as  you're  here.  Everything's  going  to  be  wonder 
ful  to-night,  I  feel  it  in  my  bones." 

396 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  beyond  me  altogether." 

"Never  mind.  I'll  take  care  of  you.  Don't  ap 
plaud  on  your  own  initiative  and  stop  the  moment  I 
do." 

"Oh,  you're  not  going  to  be  burdened  with  the  re 
sponsibility.  I've  arranged  to  be  tutored  through  this 
already." 

"You  have,  have  you?  Well!  So  you  were  in  the 
plot,  too."  Alice  leaned  to  Jean  again. 

"Not  exactly.     I—       ' 

"You're  both  as  bad,  one  as  the  other.  Manage  it 
yourselves."  The  laugh  was  more  a  caress  than  a 
sound,  as  Alice  turned  to  Sidney. 

"Thanks."  Jerome  faced  Jean,  fully,  for  the  first 
time,  and  then,  almost  instantly,  picked  up  his  pro 
gram  and  began  to  study  it  carefully.  For,  in  that 
passing  glance,  Jean  had  detached  herself  from  the 
background  of  bright  light,  evening  dress  and  subdued 
chatter  into  which  his  first  general  impression  had 
plunged  her,  and  stood  apart,  unfamiliar  and  strange. 
Jerome  read  the  program  through  once,  and  then 
again,  giving  meticulous  attention  to  each  selection, 
but,  as  if  there  were  a  magnet  beside  him,  the  change  in 
Jean  kept  drawing  him  away. 

What  was  it?  Jerome  was  used  to  the  transforma 
tion  of  evening  dress  which  he  insisted  reduced  all 
women  to  a  common  denominator.  But  Jean  was  not 
at  all  reduced  to  a  common  denominator.  Nor  was 
she  herself.  She  was  and  she  wasn't,  in  an  annoyingly 
confused  fashion  that  made  Jerome  feel,  if  he  kept  his 
eyes  long  enough  on  the  program,  that  Jean  was 
exactly  the  same,  except  that  she  wore  a  low-cut  light 
dress  instead  of  the  every-day  high-cut  dark  one.  But 
at  his  faintest  move  to  verify  this  by  a  direct  glance, 
she  was  somebody  else  altogether. 

Jerome  picked  out  certain  numbers  and  considered 
these  especially.  He  must,  turn  and  get  this  thing 


398          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

reduced  to  a  phrase  and  so  eliminate  it.  The  concert 
would  last  for  at  least  two  hours  and  a  half,  and  he 
could  not  sit  there  staring  at  his  program  and  wonder 
ing  why  Jean  Herrick  was  and  wasn't  Jean  Herrick. 
He  wanted  to  look  at  Jean,  but  he  did  not  want  Jean 
to  look  at  him. 

Then  Catherine  spoke  and  Jean  leaned  across  Philip 
to  answer.  Her  back  was  to  Jerome,  and  without  mov 
ing  he  glanced  up  sidewise. 

There  was  the  same  heavy  knob  of  hair,  low  on  her 
neck.  The  same  threads  of  gray,  which  Jean  might 
easily  have  concealed  but  never  did,  ran  through  the 
thick  mass  into  the  tight  wad.  The  same  bone  hair 
pins  inserted  in  exactly  the  same  way.  It  was  an  un 
becoming  way  to  do  her  hair,  ugly  even  in  office  clothes, 
and  preposterous  with  a  low-cut  gown.  Jerome  studied 
the  tight  wad  with  puzzled  intensity.  He  had  an  idea 
that  the  solution  lay  here  somehow.  He  had  heard 
Alice  say  that  a  woman's  character  showed  in  the  way 
she  did  her  hair  and  the  sweeping  assertion  had  amused 
him  as  Alice's  large  generalizations  always  did.  But 
perhaps  Alice  was  right.  Surely  such  a  fashion  of 
doing  one's  hair  was  more  than  an  exterior  detail.  It 
shrieked  aloud  of  lack  of  taste,  of  a  sense  of  fitness,  of 
indifference  to  accepted  standards.  It  stood  for  a 
kind  of  density  or  conceit  in  a  way.  It  was  a  glaring 
discord,  just  as  if  Jean  had  brought  her  black  leather 
wallet  or  worn  her  white  chamois  gloves,  or  carried  a 
fountain  pen  concealed  in  the  chiffon.  Jerome's  eye 
ran  along  the  row  of  seats  in  front.  That  was  it,  that 
impossible  wad  of  hair  screwed  into  a  cumbersome  knob. 
It  was  so  incongruous  that  it  might  well  strike  one,  a 
man  especially,  used  to  taking  in  a  woman's  appear 
ance  as  a  whole,  as  something  quite  wrong,  wrong 
enough  to  make  a  distinct  impression.  Relieved,  and 
amused  at  his  own  interest,  Jerome's  eyes  returned 
to  Jean. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  399 

And  then,  he  was  suddenly  and  overwhelmingly 
aware  of  Jean's  neck  and  shoulders,  of  the  soft,  white 
velvet  of  the  skin,  the  warm  smoothness  of  the  flesh, 
the  firm  muscles  molded  in  curves  that  called  to  every 
tingling  nerve  of  his  fingertips.  It  seemed  to  Jerome 
an  interminable  time  that  he  sat  so,  conscious  to  the 
depths,  of  that  velvet  whiteness.  Until  Jean  moved 
and  released  him. 

The  green  and  gold  curtain  drew  back  and  Tony, 
clutching  his  violin  as  if  it  were  a  weapon  of  defense 
against  the  staring  enemy,  advanced  to  the  footlights. 
From  her  box,  Mrs.  Dalton  made  comforting  signals, 
and  J.  William  himself,  a  meager  black  and  white 
figure  just  behind  her,  clapped  his  thin,  cold  hands  in 
encouragement. 

Jean  leaned  back.  Jerome  could  feel  her  relaxed, 
lost  completely  from  the  first  notes.  Jerome  moved, 
so  that  in  no  way  did  he  touch  even  the  wooden  arm 
of  Jean's  seat,  and  tried  to  listen.  But  he  heard  only 
the  opening  measures,  and,  after  that,  did  not  know 
that  Tony  was  playing  at  all. 

This  was  not  the  Jean  Herrick  with  whom  he  had 
worked  so  pleasantly.  It  was  another  woman.  That 
Jean  Herrick  made  no  demand  apart  from  intellectual 
sympathy.  While  this — something  in  the  very  fiber  of 
the  woman,  akin  to  the  soft  velvet  of  her  skin,  those 
definite  curves,  called  to  him.  He  had  never  even 
thought  of  Jean's  age  or  whether  she  were  good  look 
ing.  Although  if  any  one  had  asked  him  he  would  have 
said  she  had  a  fine  face.  But  her  body  had  never 
entered  his  thought  at  all.  He  might  have  known,  if 
he  had  considered  it,  that  her  flesh  would  be  firm  and 
white,  her  muscles  well  molded,  but  .  .  .  Jerome  drew 
still  farther  away.  He  did  not  want  to  touch  her  now. 
Instead  there  was  a  distinct  repulsion,  as  if  Jean  had 
offered  him  a  caress  uninvited. 

He  was  not  used  to  thinking  of  women  in  this  way. 


400          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Unrestrained  emotion  had  never  played  any  part  in 
his  life.  Other  men  might  have  moments  of  physical 
surprise  like  this,  but  he  had  never  had  them.  He  felt 
unclean  and  at  the  same  time,  as  if  the  fault  were  not 
his.  Jean 'had  done  something,  tricked  him,  taken  him 
at  a  disadvantage. 

When  Alice's  hand  on  his  arm  catapulted  him  back 
to  reality,  he  found  that  Tony  had  played  entirely 
through  the  first  division  of  the  program  and  disap 
peared. 

"Aren't  you  glad  you  came?  Isn't  he  wonderful?" 
Alice  was  pinching  him  in  her  enthusiasm. 

"Yes  ...  of  course  .  .  .  yes,  he's  wonderful." 

"Then  apologize  like  a  little  man  and  confess  that 
you've  been  bigoted  and  silly  and  will  never  be  so 
obstinate  again." 

"I  ...  apologize.'* 

"Forgiven.     Now  apologize  to  Mrs.  Herrick." 

Jero'me  turned  reluctantly  to  Jean,  and  away  again, 
without  speaking.  For  Jean  was  staring  straight  be 
fore  her,  and  although  he  could  not  see  her  eyes,  he 
knew  they  were  full  of  tears. 

Jean  Herrick  crying!  What  reserves  of  emotion 
she  had !  What  reactions  he  had  never  glimpsed ! 

The  applause  was  tumultuous  now  but  Tony  did  not 
come  back.  After  a  short  interval,  Peter  Poloff,  all 
very  black  hair  and  violent  gestures,  appeared  and 
fussed  about,  having  the  piano  moved  this  way  and 
that.  At  last  it  was  arranged  to  suit;  he  perched  on 
the  edge  of  the  stool,  pulled  up  his  cuffs,  and  crashed 
down  upon  his  instrument  in  pitiless  technique. 

Jerome  drew  deeper  into  his  chair  and  made  no 
effort  to  listen.  If  he  did  not  get  this  matter  straight 
ened  in  his  own  mind  before  the  concert  ended,  he  felt 
that  to-morrow  and  the  next  day  and  always  after, 
whenever  he  spoke  to  Jean,  he  would  see,  under  the 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  401 

high-cut,  ugly  clothes  she  wore  to  the  office,  those  call 
ing  curves  and  that  white  flesh. 

But  he  had  settled  nothing  when,  with  a  final  crash, 
Poloff  extricated  himself  from  the  keyboard,  received 
the  applause  with  exaggerated  bows,  and,  most  patently 
jealous  of  Tony,  walked  off  the  stage. 

Jerome  picked  up  his  program  and  so  escaped  Alice's 
claiming  enthusiasm.  But  he  knew  every  pressure  of 
Jean's  fingers.  He  felt  her  move  as  if  she  were  going 
to  speak  to  him  and  hoped  she  would  not.  He  did  not 
want  Jean  to j speak  to  him  yet. 

Then  Philip  whispered  something  and  she  leaned 
away.  The  buzzing  of  Philip's  voice  continued  until 
Jerome  wanted  to  reach  across  Jean  and  strike  him. 
To  his  taut  nerves  it  was  like  the  sting  of  a  pestiferous 
insect.  When  he  felt  that  it  was  beyond  his  silent 
endurance,  it  stopped  and  Jerome  wanted  more  than 
anything  else  for  it  to  continue,  anything  to  keep  Jean 
from  turning  to  him  yet.  But  when  she  did  not,  only 
settled  quietly  in  her  seat,  waiting  for  Tony  to  come 
again,  Jerome  was  angry.  And  then  Tony  was  back 
for  the  last  time.  From  sun-soaked  vineyards  across 
the  sea,  the  music  called  in  folksongs  and  old  dances  of 
the  people.  The  simple,  plaintive  things  stirred  Jean 
to  the  depths,  interpreted  all  the  inexpressible  beauty 
in  the  sky  and  sea  and  earth  and  human  love.  Jerome 
knew  that  her  lips  were  quivering  and  his  own  were 
parched  and  dry. 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  until  Tony  drew 
the  bow  in  the  last  note.  Then  a  clapping  and  stamp 
ing  forced  him  back  again  and  again,  until,  forgetting 
his  pose  of  grown-up  artist,  Tony  stamped  his  foot  in 
childish  rage  and  shook  his  head.  There  was  no  mis 
taking  that.  The  audience  rose  laughing  and  went 
out. 

A  few  moments  later  they  were  all  together  on  the 
street,  and  Myra  Cohen  was  explaining  about  "eats" 


402          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

at  her  studio  to  which  they  had  promised  to  go  en 
masse. 

"But  you  must  come,  Mr.  Stuart ;  please  don't  break 
the  party,  it's  been  too  utterly  lovely."  With  one  eye 
on  Gerte  and  Felix,  who  already  showed  signs  of  start 
ing  off  by  themselves,  Myra  made  a  last  effort.  "Please, 
Miss  Stuart,  won't  you  make  him,  and  you,  Mrs.  Her- 
rick?" 

"Don't  count  on  me.  But  Mrs.  Herrick  is  a  miracle 
worker."  Alice  shrugged  her  incompetence  before 
Jean's  superior  influence,  and  as  Myra  dashed  away 
to  intercept  Gerte  and  Felix,  she  and  Sidney  moved 
after  them.  "Put  it  over,"  she  called  back  to  Jean, 
"and  you'll  go  down  in  history  with  my  thanks." 

Jean  lookedjat  Jerome  with  understanding.  Neither 
did  she  want  to  go  to  the  studio  and  eat  unhealthy 
messes  until  weird  hours.  But  she  had  no  good  excuse. 

"It  really  won't  be  a  long  affair,  and  you  can  leave 
when  you  want." 

"Sorry.  But  I  can't.  To-morrow  I  leave  early  for 
that  St.  Louis  convention  and  have  a  dozen  things  yet 
to  do." 

Jean  smiled.  "I  wish  I  had  one  half-as-good  as 
that.  But  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go." 

Jerome  did  not  answer  the  smile.  Jean  thought  he 
looked  annoyed  for  some  reason  and  offered  no  further 
suggestion.  With  a  short  "good-night"  he  left.  When 
she  turned  she  found  only  Catherine  and  Philip  wait 
ing. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  friend?"  Catherine 
demanded. 

"A  good  excuse.  Twice  as  good  as  I'd  need  myself 
to  escape." 

Catherine  stopped.  "You  don't  have  to  go,  if  you 
don't  want  to." 

"Please  don't  desert  us,"  Philip  said,  with  the  genu- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          403 

ine  courtesy  that  was  his  at  unexpected  moments.  "It 
won't  be  the  same,  at  all." 

"Flattered,  I  yield."  Jean  swung  to  step  beside 
him. 

But  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  Catherine  brought 
them  to  a  sudden  halt.  "Excuse  or  no  excuse,  I'm 
dead  tired  and  here  I  quit." 

She  left  them  staring  after  her. 

"I  don't  believe  Catherine's  well,"  Jean  said, 
troubled,  as  they  started  again.  "Sometimes  lately, 
she  looks  so  terribly  tired." 

Philip  did  not  answer. 

Three  times  in  the  few  hours  remaining  before  dawn, 
Jerome  awoke,  each  time  to  full  and  instant  realiza 
tion  of  the  thing  that  had  happened.  It  was  in 
credible,  ridiculous,  disgusting.  Each  time  Jerome 
reached  this  conclusion,  he  turned  over,  thumped  his 
pillow  to  momentary  coolness  and  forced  sleep.  But 
each  time,  before  he  quite  succeeded,  a  small,  shamed 
relief  crept  over  him,  that  he  would  not  be  seeing  Jean 
again  before  he  left  and  that  he  was  to  be  away  three 
weeks. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT 

A  WEEK  after  the  concert  Catherine  gave  up  hope 
for  Paloff.  Mrs.  Dalton  did  not  like  him.  Some 
reason,  connected  with  an  absconding  Russian  maid 
who  had  once  stolen  some  jewelry,  had  cut  all  Russians 
from  her  interest.  She  was  very  gracious  about  it  and 
very  obstinate. 

"But  Tony's  another  matter.  She's  sickening  about 
Tony.  If  I  didn't  really  love  him  she  would  make  me 
hate  him.  Then,  why  can't  she  come  out  and  say  what 
she  intends  to  do  ?  How  do  I  know  she  won't  go  off  to 
Europe  or  Asia  or  Africa  for  the  summer,  and  every 
week  makes  a  difference  to  Tony." 

"Why  don't  you  ring  her  up?"  Jean  advised.  "She's 
already  spoken  about  it  you  say,  it  wouldn't  be  like  at 
tacking  her  from  the  blue.  It  would  be  easy  to  make 
a  reasonable  excuse." 

"Would  it?"  Catherine  asked  in  such  a  suddenly 
changed  tone,  that  Nan  and  Gerte  as  well  as  Jean 
stopped  eating  and  stared.  Jean  flushed,  but  Cather 
ine  had  not  been  herself  since  the  concert  and  now  her 
sharp  face  looked  almost  drawn  and  her  lips  were 
a  tight  line. 

"I  think  so.  I'll  do  it,  if  you  like,  drop  the  seed 
anyhow.  I  used  to  have  to  do  a  lot  of  indirect  man 
aging  of  her  in  the  old  days." 

"Thank  you,"  Catherine  said  after  a  pause,  "but  this 
is  my  affair.  You  don't  love  Tony  and  I  do." 

Catherine  did  not  wait  for  dessert  and  left  the  table. 
As  soon  as  the  door  closed,  Gerte  burst  out : 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  Catherine? 
404 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  405 

She's  been  like  a  loaded  pistol  ever  since  the  concert 
and  now  she's  just  about  ready  to  go  off." 

"She's  tired  out,"  Nan  said  shortly  and  then  began, 
in  a  most  unusual  fashion  for  Nan,  to  talk  about  her 
work.  Neither  Jean  nor  Gerte  paid  much  attention, 
but  it  bridged  the  gap,  and  Jean  felt,  that  for  some 
reason,  this  was  all  Nan  wanted  it  to  do. 

But  the  next  day,  when  Mrs.  Dalton  rang  up  and 
begged  Jean  to  help  her  manage  the  Rimaldis,  Jean 
at  first  refused.  It  was  not  until  she  saw  that  it  was 
either  a  question  of  doing  as  Mrs.  Dalton  asked,  or 
having  the  whole  matter  dropped,  that  she  at  last 
reluctantly  consented  to  see  Giuseppe  Rimaldi  and 
force  him  to  reason. 

"I'll  see  him  this  afternoon  and  let  you  know,"  Jean 
promised  and  Mrs.  Dalton  hung  up. 

The  arrangements  took  longer  than  Jean  expected 
and  the  others  were  at  the  table  when  she  came  in,  a 
little  excited  and  triumphant,  as  the  contest  with  an 
other  will  always  left  Jean.  Giuseppe  Rimaldi  had 
been  hard  to  handle,  and  it  was  only  by  threatening 
him  with  the  law,  which  would  take  away  from  him  both 
Tony  and  the  new  violin  presented  by  Mrs.  Dalton, 
that  he  had  yielded  and  promised  to  let  Tony  give  up 
selling  papers  and  have  this  time  for  practice.  In  her 
success  Jean  forgot  Catherine's  rudeness  of  the  night 
before,  and  launched  into  a  picture  of  Giuseppe  Ri 
maldi,  surrounded  by  wife  and  children,  all  except 
Tony,  defending  his  poverty. 

"Like  a  captain  defending  a  fortress,"  Jean  ex 
plained.  "No  wonder  Dalton  couldn't  handle  him." 

"It  was  a  miracle  that  you  were  on  hand  to  do  it," 
Catherine  said  in  a  cold,  detached  tone,  each  word  like 
the  prick  of  a  knife. 

Jean's  eyes  flashed.  "If  there  had  been  any  other 
way,  I  should  not  have  interfered." 

Catherine   pushed   back   her   chair.      "You   needn't 


406          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

apologize.     But  from  now  on  you  can  have  Tony- 
well." 

Gerte  made  no  comment  this  time  on  Catherine's 
going,  but  Jean  saw  Nan's  face  flush  scarlet.  As  soon 
as  the  meal  was  over,  Jean  went  up  to  her  own  room. 

What  had  Catherine  meant  by  that  "as  well"?  What 
unfounded  hurt  to  her  own  vanity  was  she  harboring? 
There  was  something  more  than  temporary  fatigue,  or 
nerves,  the  matter  with  Catherine,  and  whatever  it 
was,  Nan  knew. 

The  days  passed,  a  sultry  spring  moved  toward  a 
scorching  summer,  and  Jean  did  not  change  her  mind. 
Catherine  was  different,  so  different  that  it  was  im 
possible  to  seek  an  explanation,  even  if  Catherine  had 
allowed  the  opportunity.  Her  wit,  always  sharp, 
stabbed  now  with  a  venom  that  penetrated  even  Gerte's 
imperviousness.  She  dipped  her  slightest  remark  in  a 
well  of  hatred,  and  sent  it  tipped  with  personal 
animosity  straight  to  its  mark.  Nan  alone  escaped. 
It  seemed  to  Jean  sometimes  that  Nan  was  mentally 
tiptoeing  through  this  tension,  as  a  nurse  moves  with 
a  patient. 

All  the  old  charm  of  the  winter  was  gone  now.  The 
meals  were  disagreeable  interludes  of  forced  effort  that 
grew  more  and  more  difficult  to  make.  The  only  nights 
in  the  least  approaching  the  pleasant  dinners  of  the 
past,  were  the  nights  when  Philip  came.  Then,  for 
some  reason  that  Jean  did  not  seek  to  analyze,  they 
all  united  to  drag  together  the  tattered  shreds  of  the 
old  gayety  to  cover  this  ugliness.  Catherine  did  not 
help,  but  neither  did  she  hinder.  On  these  nights  coffee 
was  served  on  the  tiny  lawn  under  the  full-leafed  ailan- 
thus.  The  lights  In  the  rear  tenement  shone  through 
the  leaves  like  low-hung  stars,  the  fountain  was  turned 
on  to  the  full  capacity  of  its  trickle,  and  there  was  a 
definite  feeling  of  relief  in  the  air.  But  Philip  did 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  407 

not  come  often.  Not  nearly  so  often  as  he  had  in  the 
winter. 

Jerome's  three  weeks  lengthened  to  four,  then  five. 
Jean  did  not  hear  from  him.  The  original  date  of 
Alice's  wedding  passed  with  a  hurried  note  from  Alice 
that  her  father's  return  had  been  delayed,  she  herself 
was  going  to  the  mountains,  and  the  wedding  would 
take  place  whenever  he  got  back.  Then  she,  too, 
dropped  into  the  silence. 

Gerte  went  to  the  Berkshires.  Nan  took  a  cottage 
with  a  co-worker  at  Rockaway;  Beth  went  to  Maine. 
Catherine  and  Jean  were  alone.  Catherine  made  no 
explanation  of  why  she  was  staying  beyond  her  usual 
time  in  town  and  Jean  did  not  ask  her.  There  was 
little  talk  between  them.  Jean's  efforts  at  meals  re 
bounded  from  the  wall  of  Catherine's  mechanical  re 
plies  like  rubber  balls. 

At  last  in  mid-June  Jean  reached  the  snapping  point 
of  her  endurance.  Either  Catherine  would  have  to 
force  a  pleasantness  she  did  not  feel,  or  else  Jean  would 
take  her  meals  out.  She  could  not  eat  another  dinner 
sitting  opposite  Catherine's  bitter,  cynical  eyes  and 
tight  lips. 

It  was  a  suffocating  evening,  threatening  thunder, 
and  the  air,  like  hot  wool  soaked  in  glue,  crushed  Jean's 
last  scrap  of  strength  to  keep  up  this  senseless  and 
annoying  pretense.  They  had  finished  dinner,  and  Jean 
was  standing  by  the  French  window  opening  to  the 
garden,  while  Catherine  still  sat  at  the  table. 

"Suppose  we  eat  out  here  after  this."  At  least  the 
sky  would  give  a  feeling  of  space  and  freedom,  and 
the  trickle  of  the  fountain  and  noises  from  the  tene 
ments  fill  the  strained  silence.  Jean  passed  into  the 
tiny  garden  and  took  the  steamer  chair  by  +he  foun 
tain.  Catherine  came  as  far  as  the  window  and  stood 
looking  at  her  curiously. 

"Why?    Do  you  object  to  the  dining-room?" 


408  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"It  seems  empty  for  just  two — as  if  the  others  had 
died." 

Catherine  shrugged.  "Rather  sentimental,  mourn 
ing  three  able-bodied  women  gone  on  their  summer 
vacations." 

"You  know  very  well  it's  not  that."  Jean  looked 
at  Catherine  framed  in  the  window.  She  was  dressed 
in  white  and  now,  in  the  twilight  of  the  unlit  room,  her 
thin  face  was  strained  and  gray.  Jean  broke  off  and 
turned  on  the  fountain.  The  little  tinkle  rested  her 
when  she  was  very  tired. 

"It's  so  stupid  to  care — about  anything,"  Catherine 
murmured,  as  if  she  were  not  talking  directly  to  Jean. 
"If  3^ou  never  let  any  one  in — you  don't  have  to  drag 
them  out." 

"But  that's  too  high  a  price  to  pay  for  anything," 
Jean  said  more  gently.  "It  would  take  such  a  lot  of 
happiness  to  pay  for  such  little  escapes." 

Catherine  laughed  harshly.  "You  don't  pay  for  it 
all  at  once.  You  string  it  out  over  the  years — all 
through  your  life — like  buying  peace  on  the  install 
ment." 

The  last  words  she  seemed  to  hurl  at  Jean  and  went. 
Jean  watched  her  disappear  through  the  farther  door; 
heard  her  go  up  the  stairs  and  close  the  door  of  her 
room. 

Jean  sat  on  alone.  The  misunderstanding  of  the  last 
few  weeks  spread  through  the  heat.  Catherine's  bit 
terness  saturated  the  heavy  air  and  it  seemed  to  Jean 
that  mystery  and  bitterness  were  pressing  down  upon 
her  physically.  Nothing  was  the  same  as  it  had  been. 
The  clean  precision  of  the  winter  was  gone.  Motives 
were  no  longer  clear.  Every  one  and  everything  was 
confused  and  blurred  in  the  water-sogged  air.  Jerome 
stayed  away,  long  after  the  supposed  date  of  his  re 
turn,  without  an  explanation.  Things  were  piling  up 
in  his  office  and  every  day  his  secretary  wanted  to 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  409 

know  if  Jean  knew  when  he  would  return.  Catherine 
was  almost  ill  with  bitterness  and  hatred  of  something 
concealed.  Philip  came  rarely  and  then  he,  too,  was 
different.  And  since  the  others  had  gone,  he  had  not 
come  at  all.  Everything  was  shrouded  in  a  thick  mist 
of  misunderstanding,  and  Jean  felt  that  it  was,  some 
how,  all  meshed  together,  Jerome's  unexplained  delay 
with  Catherine's  bitterness  and  Philip's  strangeness 
with  Alice's  postponed  wedding. 

The  leaves  hung  motionless  in  the  breathless  night. 
Jean  felt  that  if  she  did  not  get  up  and  out  into  a 
wider  space,  she  would  be  walled  forever  in  that 
ridiculous  garden.  As  she  passed  Catherine's  room  on 
the  way  to  get  her  things,  she  saw  that  there  was  no 
light.  The  silence  reached  through  the  paneling  and 
Catherine's  bitterness  was  a  living  thing,  with  which 
she  was  closed  in  alone  in  the  darkness. 

Jean  passed  quickly  on  her  way  down  again,  and 
opened  the  front  door  quietly. 

As  she  stepped  out  she  almost  collided  with  Philip, 
his  hand  stretched  toward  the  bell  button. 

"Why  the  get-away?     Will  you  divide  the  loot?" 

"Did  it  really  look  as  stealthy  as  that?  It's  this 
weather,  all  messy  and  heavy  and  silent,  a  thunder 
storm  gum-shoeing  about,  afraid  to  come  out  into  the 
open." 

Jean  stood  aside  and  waited  for  him  to  pass. 
"Catherine's  upstairs,  but  I  don't  think  she's  going 
out." 

Philip  paid  no  attention  and  closed  the  door  behind 
Jean.  At  the  click,  Jean  thought  she  heard  a  noise  at 
Catherine's  window,  but  when  she  looked  up  there  was 
only  the  white  curtain,  limp  in  the  heat. 

Philip  did  not  ask  whether  she  objected  to  his  com 
ing  but  strolled  along  beside  her  in  one  of  his  quiet 
moods,  so  that,  after  a  few  blocks,  she  did  not  mind 
his  being  there.  From  time  to  time  he  made  some  quiet 


410          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

comment,  surprising  in  its  keen  appreciation  of  the 
color  and  drama  about  them.  He  saw  none  of  the 
squalor  and  dirt  and  tragedy  in  the  swarming  streets, 
but  like  Herrick,  long  ago  on  that  first  walk  through 
Barbary  Coast,  a  beauty,  that  Jean,  too,  saw  when 
it  was  pointed  out. 

Suddenly,  as  if  they  had  risen  from  the  litter,  a 
gnarled  old  man  and  a  woman  with  an  orange  handker 
chief  about  her  withered  brown  face  came  dragging  a 
hurdy-gurdy.  The  man  dropped  the  shafts  and  began 
to  turn  the  handle.  "Back  To  Our  Mountains"  wailed 
to  the  night.  As  the  old  woman  fawned  forward  with 
her  tambourine,  Philip  dropped  in  a  dollar. 

"Do  you  always  do  things  as  rash  as  that?" 

"Sometimes,"  Philip  answered  quietly,  and  Jean 
was  ashamed.  Perhaps  there  was  some  memory  con 
nected  with  this  melody  for  which  Philip  would  pay 
any  price.  The  man  had  hidden  spots  of  sensitiveness 
like  this  love  of  music,  especially  thin,  tuneful  music,  for 
pictures  of  simple  scenes,  and  poetry,  the  lyric  poetry 
of  emotion  and  beautiful  sound. 

Jean  surprised  Philip  by  sitting  down  on  the  near 
est  step.  He  took  a  place  on  the  step  below;  children 
gathered  about  them,  dirty,  dark-eyed  children  of  an 
other  race.  Philip  and  Jean  were  far  away  in  an 
other  land.  He  scarcely  heard  the  tunes  wheezed  out, 
one  after  another,  twice  around  the  repertoire.  It 
was  a  mist  through  which  he  moved  with  Jean.  He 
wanted  Jean  as  he  had  never  wanted  anything  in  all 
his  life,  and  his  hour  was  come.  It  frightened  him  a 
little. 

At  last  the  old  man  got  between  the  shafts  of  his 
cart,  the  old  woman  pulling  feebly  on  one.  Smiling 
and  nodding  to  the  two  on  the  steps  they  stumbled 
away.  The  children  plunged  again  into  their  games. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Jean  found  herself  sitting 
opposite  Philip  in  an  East  Side  tea-house.  The  table 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  411 

was  covered  with  dirty  oilcloth  and  the  sawdust  on  the 
floor  reeked  with  sour  dampness.  Shabby  men  with 
broad  Slavic  faces  drank  Russian  tea  from  tall  glasses 
and  argued  of  life  and  death  and  government.  In  one 
corner  a  black  bearded  Russian  in  peasant  clothes 
strummed  a  balalaika,  and  a  small  boy  in  flaming  red 
and  with  a  tinsel  cap,  stamped  and  writhed  in  a  Cos 
sack  dance. 

"It's  great,  isn't  it?" 

Jean  nodded.  "I  often  used  to  wish  that  I  could 
draw  or  paint  when  I  first  came  to  New  York."  And 
although  she  knew  that  she  would  have  striven  to  get 
on  canvas  the  battle  in  the  souls  of  these  aliens  and 
that  Philip  would  have  painted  the  picturesque  clothes 
of  the  balalaika  player,  and  the  tinsel  cap  of  the 
3ancer,  she  felt  nearer  to  him  than  she  ever  had. 

"I  used  to  try  it,  but  I  could  never  get  it.  I'll  show 
you  the  sketches  if  you  like."  Jean  knew  that  Philip 
was  proud  of  these  things  and  glad  to  show  them.  "I 
should  like  to  see  them." 

It  was  after  eleven  when  Philip  paid  the  check  and 
they  turned  homeward.  The  air  was  broken  now  with 
little  puffs  of  hot  wind.  Philip  took  off  his  hat,  so 
that  the  puffs  of  air  stirred  his  hair,  and  made  him 
look  like  a  contented  baby  in  a  draught.  But  the  eve 
ning  had  been  pleasant  and  Jean  was  ashamed  of 
noticing  how  his  fine  hair,  leaping  suddenly  erect,  made 
him  look  foolish.  As  they  turned  into  Grove  Street, 
the  first  heavy  drops  splashed,  and  before  they  could 
reach  the  door,  were  coming  in  a  steady  patter. 

Philip  followed  Jean  into  the  dark  living-room,  now 
filled  with  a  mysterious  cooling  breeze  like  a  presence. 
In  a  rush  the  storm  broke,  lashing  the  ailanthus  in  the 
garden,  beating  out  the  breeze,  and  the  air  stung  with 
the  smell  of  rain  and  the  little  square  of  earth.  Some 
where  above,  a  window  slammed.  "Catherine,"  she 
whispered,  and  Philip  felt  that  he  and  Jean  were  alone 


412  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

against  the  world,  with  all  its  silly  notions,  like  shut 
ting  windows  in  a  thunderstorm. 

Jean  moved  toward  the  garden  and  Philip  stood  be 
side  her.  The  rain  beat  like  shot  poured  through  the 
opening  between  the  tenements.  A  little  strip  of 
earth  held  fast  between  bricks;  thunder,  crashing 
against  tenements;  a  jumble  of  majesty  and  squalor* 

"I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl. 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banners  unfurl." 

The  lines  slipped  in  between  the  crashes  and  Jean 
felt  the  clouds  racing  across  mountain  peaks. 

"It  would  be  wonderful,"  she  said  in  the  same  low 
key,  as  if  they  alone  were  articulate  in  a  world  lashed 
to  silence.  "I  have  never  been  in  the  real  outdoors  in 
a  big  storm  and  I  have  always  wanted  it.  It  would  be 
glorious " 

"With  you,"  Philip  whispered.  His  face  was  white, 
as  if  the  lightning  had  touched  it,  and  his  eyes  blazed. 
Jean  stood  silent  before  them.  And  while  she  stood 
looking  at  him,  the  thunder  broke  in  a  deafening  roar 
that  rocked  the  earth  and  smashed  all  subterfuge,  all 
petty  social  pretense  at  misunderstanding;  so  that 
when  the  last  reverberation  died  away  and  Philip  said 
softly:  "You  know,  don't  you?"  Jean  nodded. 

"Well?"  he  said  with  an  effort.  The  sternness  of 
his  lips  weakened  in  nervous  twitching,  a  pitiful  be 
trayal  of  the  thin  veneer  of  his  composure.  Jean 
turned  to  the  garden  and  leaned  her  forehead  against 
the  frame  of  the  window.  Weariness  weighted  her, 
weariness  too  heavy  to  struggle  with  explanation,  too 
deep  to  resent  this  demand  so  unexpected  and  un 
welcome.  Philip  did  not  move.  Jean's  bowed  head  was 
more  eloquent  than  words,  the  dejection  and  weakness 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          413 

of  her  strong  body  more  cruel.  In  mockery  of  his 
momentary  hope,  a  faint  echo  of  the  thunder  rolled 
out  to  sea. 

"Never  ?" 

Jean  shook  her  head. 

Philip  stared  at  the  thick  knot  of  hair,  the  broad 
shoulders,  the  long,  strong  lines  of  Jean's  body,  and 
the  blood  rushed  into  his  eyes.  His  hands  clenched 
on  her  shoulders  and  he  swung  her  round,  gripping  her 
beyond  the  power  to  move. 

"You  think  I'm  weak  and  silly,  and  you  try  not  to 
laugh  at  me.  Laugh  if  you  like,  you  couldn't  hurt  me, 
neither  you  nor  any  woman  like  you.  You  think  you're 
terribly  honest  and  straight,  don't  you,  and  you  never 
tell  the  truth,  not  even  to  yourself.  You  know  how 
I  feel  when  you  are  near  me ;  you  must  know  it.  You've 
got  it  in  you,  the  call  of  a  woman  to  a  man  and  you 
pretend,  you  smother  it  all  up  under  a  sham  of  com 
panionship  and  interest,  and  it's  a  lie." 

Jean  tried  to  release  herself,  but  the  fingers  dug 
deeper  into  the  muscles  of  her  shoulders. 

"I  think  you'd  better  go." 

"I'll  go  when  I'm  ready,  not  before.  Nobody  has 
ever  told  you  the  truth  about  yourself." 

"Don't  say  any  more,  please,"  Jean  begged. 

But  the  pity  in  her  voice  fanned  the  rage  in  Philip. 

"You're  successful  in  your  little  fiddling  two-by-four 
job,  but  if  you  died  to-night,  the  silly  interfering 
would  go  on.  You  haven't  got  a  spot  in  the  whole 
world  that  really  belongs  to  you.  You've  got  nothing. 
Nothing  at  all " 

Jean  shivered.  "Don't,"  she  whispered  pitifully,  "oh 
don't,  please  don't !" 

Suddenly  tears  filled  Philip's  eyes.  "I  want  you  so, 
I  want  you  so.  It  isn't  enough,  is  it  ?  It's  only  outside, 
isn't  it,  sometimes,  now  when  it  thunders,  and  the  earth 
smells?  I'm  not  worthy  of  you,  Jean.  You're  the 


414.         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

most  wonderful  thing  God  ever  made.  You  want  it 
too,  don't  you,  something  near  and  close,  the  thing  in 
the  thunder  and  the  sweet  earth,  and  I  can  give  you 
that,  Jean,  even  if  you  can't — give  so  much  to  me. 
But  just  tolerate  me,  Jean,  I  will  ask  so  little,  just  be 
kind  and " 

The  tears  ran  in  tiny  globules  down  Philip's  cheeks. 

Jean  shivered  with  nausea,  and  stepped  back. 
Philip's  hand  clenched  and  his  face  became  evil  in  its 
baffled  longing. 

"You "     His  voice  broke  in  a  squeak. 

Jean  raised  her  head  and  looked  with  white,  set 
face  at  him.  Then  she  made  a  motion  as  if  to  pass 
and  leave  him  standing  there,  but  he  stepped  before 
her. 

"You  fool,  you  poor  blind  fool.  You  can  draw  men 
now,"  in  his  pain  his  eyes  clung  to  her  body,  "but  in 
a  few  years  you  won't.  I'm  coarse.  I  know  it.  You're 
so  damned  honest,  but  you  don't  like  the  truth  any 
better  than  any  one  else.  For  a  few  years  you'll  be 
a  woman  yet  and  then — you'll  be  hungry  and  furtive 
like — like — Catherine." 

With  a  quick  motion  Jean  passed  him,  and  without 
looking  back  walked  out  of  the  room.  Philip  heard 
her  go  quickly  up  the  stairs  and  then  the  house  was 
absolutely  still.  The  rain  dripped  from  the  ailanthus, 
and  a  single  light  high  up  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the 
tenement  went  out.  Philip  took  his  hat  and  went 
slowly,  like  an  old  person,  from  the  house. 

Staring  down  from  her  attic  Jean  saw  him  turn  the 
corner  and  his  bent  head  and  sagging,  unexercised 
body  made  her  feel  ill. 

It  was  a  long  time  after  that  when  she  heard  Cather 
ine  pad  away  from  her  window  to  her  bed. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-NINE 

A  LITTLE  before  dawn  Jean  got  up.  The  narrow 
ness  of  the  couch,  the  heat  of  the  sheets,  the 
motionless  air  of  a  scorching  day  cramped  her.  She 
tried  to  hold  her  mind  with  unaccustomed  attention 
to  the  details  of  dressing,  but  everything  was  different, 
the  walls,  the  feel  of  the  room,  the  furniture,  even  the 
toilet  articles  that  she  had  had  for  years.  They  no 
longer  formed  part  of  an  unnoticed  background,  but 
stood  out  as  distinct  points,  drawing  her  attention. 
They  thrust  themselves  into  her  consciousness,  as 
familiar  things  do  when  seen  again  after  a  long  absence 
or  a  serious  illness.  Between  yesterday  and  to-day 
something  had  happened  so  that  the  person  who  was 
handling  the  comb  and  brush,  moving  the  clothes  from 
one  chair  to  another,  turning  on  the  bath  water,  was 
different  from  the  person  who  had  done  these  things 
yesterday. 

When  Jean  thought  of  Philip  gripping  her  shoul 
ders,  disgust  rushed  over  her  in  scorching  waves  that 
left  her  cold  and  quivering  with  anger.  All  night  she 
had  grown  hot  and  cold  at  the  memory.  She  had 
gotten  up  to  escape  it  but  now  as  she  dressed  she  felt 
it  stronger  even  than  she  had  during  the  night.  The 
thing  was  not  a  grotesque  exaggeration  of  the  dark 
ness,  but  a  reality  persisting  into  the  light.  And  as 
she  put  on  her  clothes  she  tried  not  to  know  that  she 
was  doing  it  hurriedly,  covering  from  some  need  to 
her  own  peace,  the  white  arms  and  neck. 

She  never  wanted  to  speak  to  Philip  again,  nor  see 
him,  nor  hear  of  him.  The  thought  of  Catherine  creep- 

415 


416          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

ing  back  to  bed,  her  gray  hair  in  two  plaits  down  her 
back,  sickened  her.  Catherine,  stealing  about  catlike 
in  the  night,  and  Philip  weak  and  angry  in  his  baffled 
desire,  and  she,  Jean,  so  far  from  desire  and  jealousy 
and  need  like  this,  all  mixed  up  in  this  unclean  situa 
tion.  Jean  felt  that  she  would  never  be  able  wholly 
to  free  her  shoulders  from  Philip's  clutching  fingers, 
or  forget  the  things  he  had  said.  She  would  never 
again  be  exactly  the  same  person  who  had  opened  the 
front  door  and  found  Philip  on  the  landing,  Philip, 
with  his  flat  jokes,  his  heavy,  flabby  body,  his  grotesque 
caperings. 

"For  a  few  years  you  will  be  a  woman  yet." 

Jean's  face  flamed.  She  wanted  to  go  downstairs 
and  out  of  the  house  and  never  come  back.  She  did 
not  want  to  see  Catherine,  and  yet,  if  she  went  out  at 
this  extraordinary  hour  of  the  morning,  the  need  of 
an  explanation,  or  some  reference  to  it,  would  bulk 
between  her  and  Catherine  when  next  they  met.  And 
for  her  own  sake  and  Catherine's  they  must  pretend. 
They  would  drag  through  breakfast  together.  Per 
haps  Catherine  would  even  refer  in  some  way  to  Philip, 
as  if  their  coming  in  late  at  night  had  disturbed  her. 
She  would  do  it  casually  and  well,  better  than  Jean 
could  meet  it. 

The  sun  touched  the  tips  of  the  flagpoles  on  tall 
buildings,  and  another  day  crept  out  from  night.  .  .  . 
It  was  not  true.  None  of  it  was  true.  And  yet,  the 
words  sounded  as  clearly  in  her  ears  now  as  they  had 
when  Philip  had  hurled  them  at  her.  "You've  got  it 
in  you,  the  call  of  a  woman  to  a  man." 

Nothing  personal,  nothing  her  own,  part  of  her  con 
scious  choice.  But  something  hidden,  impersonal, 
something  that  she  shared  with  all  the  pitifully  weak 
victims  of  lust  and  their  own  senses. 

The  breakfast  bell  sounded.  Jean  went  slowly  across 
the  room  and  opened  the  door.  She  stepped  into  the 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          417 

hall  and  heard  Catherine  come  out  from  her  room  be 
low.  She  stepped  back  and  closed  the  door  quietly. 

When  she  was  sure  that  Catherine  had  gone,  she 
went  downstairs.  The  stairs  and  the  hall  had  the  same 
quality  of  strangeness  as  the  familiar  toilet  articles 
and  her  own  attic.  As  Jean  took  her  usual  seat  at  the 
table,  the  quiet  dining  room  seemed  to  retreat  and 
Jean  felt  physically  smaller  in  it.  And  as  she  closed 
the  front  door,  the  whole  house  seemed  to  be  whispering 
about  her.  She  turned  and  looked  up  at  the  mellow 
red  bricks  with  cool  spots  of  ivy  grown  window  boxes, 
the  white  curtains  of  Catherine's  windows,  up  to  her 
own  attic.  The  whole  house  was  strange,  inimical,  self- 
righteous  in  its  aloofness,  as  if  she  had  betrayed  its 
trust. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  go  on  living  there.  She 
could  not  stand  living  under  pretense  to  Catherine  and, 
besides,  Philip  would  no  longer  come.  It  was  the  near 
est  thing  he  had  to  a  home  and  it  had  been  his  long 
before  she  came.  And  if  Philip  stayed  away,  some 
thing  would  go  out  of  the  days  for  Nan,  and  Nan  had 
so  little.  Nan's  life  seemed  emptier  than  ever  now, 
when  Jean  thought  of  it  in  relation  to  Philip,  all 
possibility  of  love  and  warmth  centered  on  the  fat  body 
slouching  away  into  the  night. 

Jean  stayed  at  the  office  only  long  enough  to  at 
tend  to  the  most  important  matters  and  left  before 
noon.  The  rest  of  the  day  she  spent  looking  for  a 
place  to  live.  But  it  was  difficult  to  find.  She  walked 
all  that  day  and  all  the  next  and  the  next,  going  home 
long  after  the  dinner  hour,  when  she  was  sure  she 
would  not  meet  Catherine.  And  then,  on  the  fourth 
day,  she  found  it,  a  four-room  apartment,  a  pent 
house  on  the  roof  of  a  quiet,  middleclass  apartment 
house  in  Old  Chelsea.  High  above  the  street,  it  perched 
on  a  secluded  corner  of  the  roof,  and  faced  the  Jersey 
shore. 


418  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jean  scarcely  looked  at  the  rooms  as  she  followed 
the  caretaker  and  even  while  the  latter  was  still  point 
ing  out  the  usefulness  of  a  drop-table  in  the  kitchen, 
Jean  was  back  in  the  little  living-room,  facing  west, 
just  where  the  widest  space  between  distant  factory 
chimneys  opened  to  the  Jersey  shore.  The  roar  of  the 
city  below  rose  in  a  pleasant  murmur  that  gave  an 
added  feeling  of  peace  and  a  deep  security,  as  if  nothing 
dangerous  or  violent,  no  matter  how  it  tried,  could  ever 
reach  up  to  this  sun-drenched  peace.  For  the  first  time 
in  five  days  Philip's  hold  loosened  and  he  slipped  back 
into  a  roaring  vortex  that  could  not  reach  her. 

That  night  Jean  went  home  to  dinner.  She  had 
determined  to  wait  up  in  case  Catherine  was  not  there, 
but  Catherine  was,  and  they  had  an  uncomfortable 
meal  during  which  Jean  made  repeated  efforts  to  intro 
duce  the  subject  of  her  moving  and  could  not.  At  last 
she  said  abruptly,  just  as  they  both  rose  and  Catherine 
moved  toward  .the  living-room  as  if  afraid  Jean  was 
going  to  suggest  the  lawn, 

"I've  taken  an  apartment,  Catherine." 

She  waited  a  moment  for  some  comment,  but  none 
came.  She  could  scarcely  throw  the  statement  at  Cath 
erine  and  walk  out  of  the  room,  so  she  began  to  describe 
her  wonderful  new  home  upon  a  roof.  But  Catherine's 
silence  made  her  uncomfortable,  and  she  stopped  as 
suddenly  as  she  had  begun. 

As  if  she  had  been  waiting  for  Jean  to  clear  away 
this  ornamentation  of  enthusiasm,  Catherine  said: 

"When  are  you  going?" 

"This  week,  I  think." 

"I  suppose  that  means  we  will  not  see  you  again." 

"Not  if  it  rests  with  me."  Jean  fancied  that  Cather 
ine  smiled,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see.  If  Catherine 
was  going  to  be  nasty,  there  was  really  no  obligation 
to  consider  her  any  longer.  Jean  svent  on  toward  the 
hall,  but  Catherine's  next  statement  stopped  her. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          419 

"I  suppose  Nan  will  be  the  next.  She's  getting  the 
home-bug,  too — and  she  has  a  tremendous  respect  for 
you." 

"I  don't  see  how  even  Nan's  energy  could  keep  house 
and  work  with  the  hours  she  has." 

"Nan  might  give  up  her  job — if  the  home-bug  gets 
bad  enough.  Philip  is  always  suggesting  that  she  keep 
house  for  him  and  Nan  only  needs  a  starter.  Funny, 
isn't,  how  fashionable  it's  getting — to  want  a  home? 
Do  you  remember  those  old  teas  at  your  place  that 
winter?  Perhaps  we've  all  gone  as  far  as  we  can." 

Jean  resisted  the  longing  to  switch  on  the  lights  and 
say,  "I'm  sorry,  Catherine.  It  was  the  last  thing  that 
would  have  entered  my  mind.  I've  been  happy  here 
with  you,  but  it's  best  for  me  to  go."  Instead  she 
moved  away  across  the  living-room,  for  she  felt  that 
Catherine's  eyes  were  actually  touching  her  in  the 
murky  light. 

"Perhaps  we've  gone  so  far  we're  coming  clear  round 
on  the  other  side  again — if  you're  right  about  it's  being 
fashionable  to  want  a  home." 

There  was  a  faint  noise  as  if  Catherine  were  laugh 
ing.  "I'm  not  accusing  you  of  any  such  weakness,  but 
Nan  would  like  it.  There  have  been  times  when  Nan 
has  been  perfectly  frank  about  it,  and  I  recognize  the 
symptoms  coming  on.  Besides — Philip  wants  one — 
and  Nan  would  do  anything  for — 'Philly.'  " 

"I  don't  believe  that  Philip  really  wants  a  home.'* 

"Don't  you?  Perhaps  you're  right.  It  would  be 
tragic,  wouldn't  it — if  he  meant  all  he  says  about  a 
home — because  there's  something  undeveloped  and 
silly  about  Philip  that  would  keep — any  woman  whom 
he  might  care  about  from  caring  for  him." 

"I  don't  think  that  Philip  is  silly,"  Jean  said  quietly. 

"Perhaps  not.  But  he  makes  a  good  bluff  at  it 
then." 

In  spite  of  the  darkness,  Jean  felt  something  moving 


420          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

between  them,  just  as  she  had  felt  it,  without  under 
standing,  on  the  night  she  had  hooked  Catherine  be 
fore  the  concert. 

"Perhaps  he  does.  But  then,  I  think  that  men,  as 
often  as  women,  make  pretenses  and — hide  behind 
them." 

"I  don't  doubt  that,  but  they  don't  put  it  over — • 
any  better  than  most  women  do." 

As  Catherine  passed  and  went  quickly  out  of  the 
room,  Jean  wished  that  she  had  not  forced  her  to  that 
last.  Catherine's  voice  had  trembled  so. 

The  next  morning  when  Jean  came  down,  the  maid 
said  that  Miss  Lee  had  gone  on  her  vacation. 

On  Friday  Jean  had  her  things  taken  from  storage 
and  by  Saturday  night,  her  new  home  was  in  order. 
Jean  cooked  her  own  dinner  and  ate  it  on  a  small  table 
in  the  shadow  of  the  house,  where  she  could  watch  the 
sun  sink  over  the  Jersey  hills. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY 

THE  evenings  from  early  dusk  until  late,  Jean  spent 
upon  the  roof,  and  her  first  feeling,  of  being  high 
and  safe  from  all  turmoil,  deepened.  Its  peace  was 
tangible.  Something  within  herself  reached  out  to 
meet  it,  as  something  within  had  reached  toward  the 
spirit  of  the  hills  and  sea  in  the  blue  days  with  Herrick. 
Something  within  herself  was  part  of  a  universal  spirit, 
and  here  upon  her  roof,  the  spirit  was  one  of  peace. 

On  Friday  a  note  was  forwarded  from  Alice.  The 
Bedding  was  to  be  on  Saturday  afternoon  at  four 
o'clock.  "Don't  forget,  four  means  four  because  we 
have  to  catch  the  seven  boat,"  Alice  wrote,  as  if  she 
were  inviting  Jean  to  a  tennis  match  and  four  o'clock 
marked  the  limit  of  the  entries. 

Jerome  must  have  returned.  The  wedding  was  to 
take  place.  Things  were  going  to  be  as  they  had  been, 
untangled  and  proceeding  logically.  Jean  was  happy. 
The  last  miserable  days  on  Grove  Street,  dimmed  by 
this  wonderful  week,  high  on  her  quiet  roof,  faded  to 
sincere  pity  for  Catherine,  bitter,  caustic,  and  slyly 
watching  from  windows;  and  Philip,  weak,  servile, 
lonely  Philip. 

On  Saturday,  a  little  before  four,  Jean  entered  the 
Stuart  living-room,  and  then  stood  wondering  whether, 
after  all,  she  had  not  mistaken  the  hour  and  the  cere 
mony  was  not  over.  Alice,  in.  a  pale  yellow  dress,  a 
favorite  of  Jerome's,  was  laughing  with  the  minister,  a 
venerable,  white  haired  person  with  twinkling,  merry 
eyes.  Sidney  and  two  friends  were  moving  a  victrola 
and  Jean  caught  Jerome's  voice  arguing  with  Malone 

421 


422  THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

about  the  supper  seating.  The  next  moment,  Alice 
caught  sight  of  her  and  hurried  over. 

"Awfully  glad  you  made  it.  We're  just  about  to 
begin." 

"I'm  glad  it's  not  over.*' 

"It  would  have  been  only  Sid  forgot  to  tell  the 
minister  and  so  we  had  to  scratch  round  and  get  old 
Dr.  Gillet.  Isn't  he  a  dream?" 

"Made  for  the  part." 

"Looks  like  one  of  the  Prophets  after  a  good  din 
ner,  doesn't  he?  The  old  duck!" 

Just  then  Sidney  joined  them. 

"Ready,  dear?" 

"Yes.  If  dad's  through.  Oh,  there  he  is.  All  right, 
come  on." 

Passing  through  the  French  window  Jerome  saw 
Jean  standing  a  little  apart,  the  smile  at  Alice's 
flippancy  touched  with  sadness  at  the  thought  of  what 
Martha  would  have  felt  at  having  to  "scratch  round" 
for  another  minister  who  looked  "like  one  of  the 
Prophets  after  a  good  dinner." 

In  the  six  weeks  of  absence,  Jerome  had  settled  the 
matter  of  the  concert  night  to  his  own  satisfaction. 
Away  from  Jean,  he  had  analyzed  it  thoroughly  and 
was  glad,  by  the  time  he  had  put  a  few  hundred  miles 
between  them,  that  it  had  happened  as  it  had.  It 
would  never  happen  again  and  it  had  taught  him 
much.  Now,  as  he  saw  her  standing,  a  little  lonely 
it  seemed  to  him,  with  that  look  of  mingled  amuse 
ment  and  sadness  on  her  face,  he  felt  a  deep  tenderness, 
almost  as  if  she  were  Alice,  a  tenderness  which  had  in 
it  no  room  for  passion.  He  was  crossing  the  room  to 
stand  beside  her — Alice  absolutely  forbade  being  given 
away — when  the  minister  opened  his  book  and  the  short 
service  of  the  Episcopal  Church  began.  Jerome  stood 
where  he  was,  and  after  a  moment  forgot  Jean. 

Standing  aside  from  the  group  of  young  people,  aU 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          423 

strangers,  Jean  listened  and,  as  she  listened,  the  room 
faded  into  the  walls  of  the  little  western  church  at 
the  foot  of  the  Berkeley  Hills.  In  the  pew  behind, 
Martha  stifled  her  sobs  and  Elsie  dabbed  with 
surreptitious  slaps  at  the  fidgeting  Tommykins. 

What  a  dreary  affair  it  had  been.  Jean  felt  again 
her  rebellion  and  shame  at  the  sordid  ugliness  of  Mar 
tha's  sobs  and  Elsie's  whispered  rebukes. 

"Do  you,  Alice,  take  this  man,  to  be  your  wedded 
husband  ...  to  love,  honor  and  obey,  in  sickness  and 
in  health,  until  death  do  you  part?" 

"I  do." 

She,  too,  had  promised,  firm  in  belief  of  herself,  of 
Herrick,  of  any  test  the  future  might  hold.  And  she 
had  understood  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  It  was  a 
terrible  promise  to  make  in  one's  youth,  untried. 

"Do  you,  Sidney,  take  this  woman,  to  be  your  wed 
ded  wife  .  .  .  succor  and  cherish  in  sickness  and  in 
health,  until  death  do  you  part?" 

Franklin  had  promised,  just  as  clearly,  and  she  had 
thrilled  with  the  safety  of  his  protection.  How  awed 
she  had  been,  almost  grateful,  for  this  opportunity  to 
build  a  life  together,  not  a  life  with  all  beauty  drugged 
to  nagging  duty,  but  a  free  life,  brimming  with  op 
portunity,  overflowing  with  beauty.  And  even  while 
he  promised — she  knew  now  what  had  been  Franklin's 
mood  as  he  stood  beside  her — desire,  throttled  to  con 
trol  until  the  effort  whitened  and  sharpened  his  face  to 
the  Galahad  look. 

Jean's  head  drooped. 

And  with  Gregory,  no  open  honesty  like  this,  but 
smothering  secrecy  that  she  had  tried  to  glorify. 

To  love,  honor  and  obey,  till  Death  do  you  part. 

To  seal  the  truth  openly  before  all,  as  Alice  was 
doing.  In  all  her  life  she  would  never  have  a  memory  as 
this  would  be  to  Alice. 

"In  the  name  of  God  the  Father,  God  the  Son  and 


424          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

God  the  Holy  Ghost,  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife." 

There  was  a  moment  of  deep  silence,  in  which  it 
seemed  to  Jean  that  these  two  people  as  individuals, 
were  effaced  in  this  Thing  they  had  just  done,  and 
that,  never  till  the  end  of  time  could  they  again  be 
two. 

Then  every  one  was  crowding  about,  laughing  and 
talking  and  trying  to  kiss  the  bride.  But  Alice  fended 
them  all  off  and  Jerome  took  her  in  his  arms.  Jean 
saw  his  face  twitch  as  he  let  her  go. 

"How  he  is  going  to  miss  her,"  Jean  thought  and 
then  Jerome  was  crossing  the  room  to  her. 

"Well,  I  thought  you  had  decided  to  live  in  St. 
Louis.  How  did  the  conference  go?  I'm  dying  to 
hear." 

With  this  flippant  greeting,  Jean  pushed  memory 
from  her. 

"Great.  And  I'm  dying  to  tell  about  it.  I  tried  to 
get  over  to  the  office  this  morning,  but  Alice  discovered 
me.  You  haven't  any  idea  what  a  lot  of  people  and 
how  much  effort  it  takes  to  keep  a  wedding  simple.  I 
saw  only  the  tag  end  of  proceedings  but  if  I  had  an 
other  daughter  she  should  have  everything  from  organ 
march  to  flower  girls.  It's  a  lot  easier." 

While  he  spoke  he  looked  about  for  a  quiet  spot  in 
which  to  tell  Jean  of  the  conference.  The  garden  of 
fered  the  only  chance  and  he  was  just  going  to  suggest 
it  when  Alice  swooped  down  upon  him. 

"No,  you  don't,  Dad  Stuart.  This  is  my  party. 
Look  over  there  at  Mrs.  Gather.  Belle  said  she  couldn't 
vouch  for  her  mother  not  crying  and  she's  just  about 
ready  to  begin.  Beat  it.  I  will  not  have  a  single  weep 
at  this  wedding." 

"Can't  I  wait  till  she  begins?  I  haven't  seen — I 
want  to  tell  Mrs.  Herrick " 

"Run  along.     She  is  beginning." 

Alice  watched  until  he  was  safely  landed  by  Mrs 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          425 

Gather.  When  she  turned  back,  Jean  saw  with  sur 
prise  that  the  blue  eyes  were  misty. 

"Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Herrick,  that's  the  only  spot 
that  hurts  in  the  whole  business,  having  to  leave  Dad. 
He's  going  to  be  lonesome,  whether  he  knows  it  or  not." 

"I'm  afraid  he  is." 

"He'll  just  stay  over  here  by  himself  and  putter  with 
bulbs  and  things  and  get  into  a  rut.  I  know  he'll 
never  go  to  a  place  except  to  the  office  when  I'm  not 
here  to  prod  him." 

"Well,  the  office  is  a  pretty  absorbing  thing." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  but — don't  you  think  that  as  people 
get  older  their  work  just  kind  of  goes  along  without 
all  of  them  that  there  is,  and  the  rest  gets  into  a 
groove?" 

"Good  gracious,  what  an  uncomfortable  thought!" 

"He's  gotten  used  to  me  in  a  whole  lot  of  little  ways 
he  doesn't  know  anything  about,  and  I'm  afraid,"  she 
hesitated,  took  a  quick  summary  of  Jean  and  added 
hastily  as  she  saw  Sidney  coming  to  her,  "Would  you 
mind,  sometimes,  just  prodding  him  along  a  bit,  Mrs. 
Herrick,  till  it  all  settles  down  again?" 

"I'll  prod  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  but  I'm  afraid 
it  isn't  promising  much." 

"Oh,  it's  only  for  a  little  while.  I'll  be  back  in 
October  to  tend  to  the  matter  myself." 

"Till  then,  perhaps  I  can  manage  it."  Jean  laughed, 
too,  but  she  had  a  tenderness  for  this  big  girl  who  was 
afraid  that  Jerome  Stuart  would  get  into  a  rut. 

In  spite  of  the  pleasant  informality  of  the  supper,  it 
seemed  a  long-drawn-out  affair  to  Jean,  and  try  as  she 
would,  she  could  not  share  the  gayety.  With  the 
exception  of  Mrs.  Gather  and  Sidney's  aunt,  the  rest 
were  Alice's  age,  and  there  was  a  feeling  of  perfect 
assurance  and  untried  strength  in  the  air,  that  made 
Jean  feel  old.  Seated  between  a  young  man  interested 
in  subnormal  children  and  a  girl  cubist,  who  was  ad- 


426          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

vancing  an  intricate  argument  from  which  Jean  could 
not  gather  whether  Cubism  was  subnormal,  or  sub- 
normality  was  misunderstood  Cubism,  Jean  struggled 
to  give  her  attention,  but  her  thoughts  drifted  farther 
and  farther  away,  and  at  last  withdrew  from  the  dis 
cussion  altogether. 

From  his  end  of  the  table,  Jerome  snatched  glances 
at  Jean,  and  it  was  only  the  necessity  of  keeping  Mrs. 
Gather  amused  that  prevented  Jerome,  too,  from  sink 
ing  into  a  like  silence,  but  he  felt  the  mood,  a  strong 
wire,  binding  them  together.  He  was  as  relieved  as 
Jean  when  supper  was  over,  and  while  the  girls  strug 
gled  with  Alice  to  let  them  "do  the  thing  as  it  ought 
to  be  done"  and  the  young  men  began  clearing  the  room 
and  the  veranda  for  a  dance,  he  sought  Jean  again.  As 
he  reached  her,  Alice's  clear  voice  rose  above  the  laugh 
ter. 

"Now  quit  it,  Belle.  I  wasn't  decorated  for  the 
sacrifice,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be  'started  on  life's 
journey.'  I'm  going  to  wear  that  tan  raw-silk  you've 
all  seen  a  dozen  times,  and  it  would  be  idiotic  to  help 
me  get  into  that.  Besides,  the  snappers  are  almost  all 
off,  and  nobody  but  myself  knows  the  trick  of  pretend 
ing  they're  not." 

Jerome  smiled.  "This  generation's  a  scream,  isn't 
it?" 

"I  was  just  thinking — do  you  suppose  it  is  or  that 
we're  just  older?" 

"No.    It  is  different." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is."  Jean  looked  about  at  the 
young  men  clearing  the  furniture  to  the  veranda  and 
the  girls  grouped  about  the  victrola,  choosing  records. 
"But  I  don't  think  I  ever  realized  before,  quite  so 
clearly,  anyhow,  that  there  is  a  'this  generation.'  I 
always  feel  as  if  /  am  this  generation,  and  children  like 
Tony  are  the  future." 

"Delusion,  terrible  delusion.     But,  then,  you  haven't 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  427 

a  daughter  Alice's  age,  who  discusses  her  own  children 
even  before  her  marriage." 

"Frightful,"  Jean  agreed,  pushing  away  a  strange, 
new  wish  that  she  did  have  a  daughter  like  Alice.  "To 
be  menaced  with  two  generations  at  once — that  would 
take  the  pep  out  of  me." 

Alice  was  back  now,  ready  to  leave.  She  sent  Sidney 
on  an  errand,  and  joined  the  girls  round  the  victrola. 

"They're  so  terribly  afraid  of  not  being  reasonable, 
or  being  sentimental,  and  they  go  to  such  lengths  to 
prove  their  independence.  Why,  Alice  would  rather 
die  than  blush,  even  if  she  could  accomplish  that  feat. 
She  would  think  it  was  indecent." 

"Maybe  it  is,"  Jean  said  lightly,  hoping  to  keep 
the  talk  from  dropping  altogether  to  the  depth  of  her 
own  seriousness.  For  this  wedding  was  full  of  intrud 
ing  revelations  that  wearied  and  saddened  her. 

A  daughter  like  Alice.  If  she  had  had  a  child.  A 
child  of  Herrick's.  It  might  have  been  ten  or  eleven 
years  old,  now.  It  was  very  strange  to  think  of  a  child 
of  Herrick's.  She  had  never  wanted  a  child  of  his, 
never  for  an  instant.  She  remembered,  vividly,  the 
Sunday  she  had  lain  under  the  trees  and  thought  of 
the  possibility  of  a  child  that  would  have  Herrick's 
high  laugh.  How  queer  it  had  made  her  feel !  That 
was  the  same  day  she  had  asked  her  mother  about  the 
scene  in  the  old  Webster  Street  house,  and  Martha  had 
let  the  match  burn  her  fingers. 

And  Gregory's  child.  It  would  have  been  a  little 
thing,  scarcely  more  than  a  baby  yet,  not  nearly  as 
old  as  Puck  the  day  she  had  told  Puck  stories  and 
waited  for  Margaret  to  come  home. 

Franklin's  child.     Gregory's  child. 

For  the  first  time  Jean  linked  the  two  in  the  possi 
bility  of  their  fatherhood  of  her  child.  And  for  the 
first  time,  a  child  stood  out  as  a  separate  entity,  a 
distinct  individual,  owning  its  own  existence.  Her 


428  1HE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

child.  A  part  of  herself,  yet  more  its  own  self.  A 
unit  of  "this  generation,"  the  generation  in  which  she 
had  felt,  until  this  moment,  that  she  herself  belonged. 

But  she  did  not  belong.  She  had  no  part  in  it. 
There  was  a  chasm  between  it  and  herself.  Forward 
across  the  chasm  there  was  nothing.  Back,  there  was 
Martha's  grave. 

"What  do  you  think  Alice  told  me?"  The  intona 
tion  caught  Jean's  attention  and  brought  it  to  the 
man  beside  her.  "I  suggested  that  if  she  wanted  to 
be  really  logical,  she  should  have  no  ceremony  at  all. 
She  said  it  was  so  inconvenient  when  you  went  to 
hotels,  or  among  people  who  didn't  understand. 
Imagine!  Advancing  that  as  a  reason.  I  suggested 
that,  under  such  pressure,  she  might  lie  about  it,  and 
she  said,  'Lying  always  smothers  things  up.  It  isn't 
clean.'  " 

"She's  right." 

"Of  course  she's  right.  But  how  modern  it  is !  She 
doesn't  logically  believe  in  a  ceremony.  She  doesn't 
believe  that  marriage  has  anything  to  do  with  religion 
and  she  thinks,  or  thinks  she  thinks,  that  in  time  even 
the  civil  ceremony  will  vanish." 

"It  will." 

"Of  course  it  will.  But  nothing  would  induce  Alice, 
or  any  of  the  young  people  here,  to  say  honestly  that 
they  are  afraid.  Fear  is  a  terrible  bugaboo.  They're 
too  young  to  know  that  it  is  the  deepest  rooted  instinct 
in  the  race.  And  so  they  wiggle  out  of  the  dilemma  by 
an  exaltation  of — cleanliness.  Terribly  modern,  like 
cold  baths  and  exposed  plumbing." 

"I  don't  know  that  that's  it,"  Jean  said  thoughtfully. 
"I  feel,  at  the  present  moment,  as  if  I  could  put  up  a 
perfectly  sound  argument  on  either  side.  That's  the 
trouble  with  analyzing  too  hard,  you  always^ome,  clear 
round  the  circle  and  end  in  conservatism  ag  >£$.  When 
they  stood  there,  before  the  God  in  whom  they  do  not 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  429 

believe,  and  promised  in  the  old,  narrow  way,  in  the 
form  for  which  they  have  no  respect,  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey,  till  death  does  them  part,  it  did  seem  to  be 
more  than  a  ceremony.  For  a  moment  it  did  seem  to 
reach  down  below  any  passing  desire,  down  into  an 
eternal  reality.  I  suppose  it's  because  we  have  no  sub 
stitute  yet  for  the  old-fashioned  God,  and  so,  in  big 
moments,  we  still  stand  up  and  promise  things  out  loud, 
as  we  used  to  do,  when  we  were  children,  to  our 
parents."  She  turned  suddenly  to  Jerome.  "Would 
you  have  liked  Alice  to  go  away  without  any  ceremony, 
the  useless  ceremony  that  some  day  will  be  done  away 
with?" 

"No,"  Jerome  answered  slowly,  "I  don't  believe  that 
I  would.  No,  to  be  honest,  I  would  not.  We  haven't 
eliminated  it  yet  and  till  then  it's — safe." 

"Safety — and  weakness — and  a  fear-filled  age." 

"Don't!  You  make  me  feel  like  Methuselah  in  his 
last  illness." 

Jean  laughed,  but  she  was  glad  that  Alice  appeared 
just  then.  As  she  took  the  girl's  hand  in  hers,  she 
answered  the  signal  that  Alice  sent,  and  her  lips  mo 
tioned,  "Don't  worry  about  that.  I'll  prod." 

Then  Alice  put  both  arms  about  her  father's  neck 
and  toned  down  the  strain  of  the  moment  by  instruc 
tions  concerning  the  management  of  Malone. 

"If  it's  any  comfort,  remember  that  I  managed 
several  housekeepers  while  you  were  in  pinafores." 

"I  suppose  you  did.  But  maybe  you've  gotten  out 
of  practice."  Alice  gave  him  a  last  swift  kiss,  Sidney 
shook  hands  without  saying  anything,  and,  with  a  gen 
eral  good-by  thrown  among  the  guests  as  if  they  were 
going  on  an  errand  next  door,  Alice  and  Sidney  were 
gone. 

In  the  contusion  of  starting  the  dance  that  followed, 
Jean  slipp  away  and  got  her  things.  She  had  in 
tended  to  go  unnoticed,  but  Jerome  was  waiting  and 


430          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

walked  to  the  gate.  He  looked  grave  now,  as  if  the 
forced  gayety  of  parting  had  taxed  his  pretense.  Nor 
could  Jean  throw  aside  the  seriousness  of  her  own  mood. 
The  wedding  had  saddened  her ;  against  all  the  logic  of 
her  beliefs,  against  what  she  knew  were  her  fixed  de 
ductions,  something  persisted,  a  fine,  thin  thread  of 
regret,  a  sense  of  waste,  of  loss.  A  terrible  clarity 
seemed  to  possess  her,  as  if  she  could  see  the  in 
destructible  skeleton  of  all  human  dependence  and 
weakness,  under  the  conventions  and  forms  with  which 
society  had  clothed  it.  And  Jean  wanted  the  healing 
solitude  of  her  roof. 

They  stood  looking  out  over  the  empty  field  before 
them,  each  full  of  suppressed  thoughts,  each  conscious 
of  the  other's  absorption,  very  near  in  their  under 
standing. 

"Good-night."  Jean  opened  the  gate  before  he  could 
do  it  for  her  and  passed  out. 

"Good-night."  Jerome  watched  her  swing  away, 
fainter  and  fainter  through  the  dusk. 

He  did  not  go  back  again  to  the  house,  but  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  garden,  beyond  reach  of  the 
noise  and  lights.  Here  it  was  still  and  peaceful  among 
the  growing  things,  so  still,  that  he  seemed  to  be  the 
only  thing  in  motion  on  the  earth,  poised  in  ether. 
Time  took  on  a  quality  of  space,  and  incidents,  some 
quite  forgotten,  rose  near,  like  objects  close  to  hand. 
He  could  see  through  time,  all  about  him,  back  down 
the  years,  to  his  own  wedding  night.  And,  as  he  had 
not  been  since  then,  he  was  alone  again  with  Helen. 

How  adorably  clinging  and  frightened  she  had  been, 
trusting  in  his  wisdom,  so  little  more  than  her  own. 
What  wild  emotions  had  gripped  him,  almost  as  fright 
ened  as  she,  what  longing  and  what  desire  and  what 
denial  all  bound  into  a  wonderful  exaltation  to  make 
Helen  happy  always,  to  keep  her  trust !  To  hold  her 
safe  in  the  great  love  that  throbbed  and  beat  in  him 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  431 

almost  beyond  his  power  to  calm  to  the  degree  of 
Helen's  white  shyness. 

He  had  done  his  best,  even  when  the  exaltation  had 
gone,  and  only  deep  affection  and  tender  loyalty  were 
left  for  the  clinging  little  thing  who  had  remained  to 
the  end,  the  least  reluctant  and  fearful. 

The  day  when  Alice  had  been  laid  in  his  arms.  He 
had  scarcely  noticed  her,  because  Helen  was  slipping 
so  quietly  away.  And  the  months  afterwards,  stabbing 
remorse  as  if  he  had  killed  Helen,  and  long  periods 
when  he  had  forgotten  her  altogether,  been  quite 
absorbed  in  his  work,  Alice,  and  the  wonderful  fact  of 
living. 

Years  since  then.  Happy  years  full  of  work  and 
Alice.  .  .  .  Now  Alice  had  gone  and  Sidney  was  only 
another  man  like  himself,  with  all  the  weakness  and 
hidden  places  in  every  man. 

Then  he  thought  of  Jean,  as  she  had  looked  at  sup 
per.  She,  too,  was  full  of  hidden  places  and  contra 
dictions.  There  was  nothing  simple,  no  absolute  unity 
anywhere.  Suddenly  Jerome  felt  chilly.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  a  quarter  past  one.  He  stopped  and 
listened.  The  house  was  silent.  They  had  all  gone, 
then,  while  he  walked  in  the  garden. 

Jerome  went  back.  The  victrola  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  the  records  scattered  about  on  top  of  the 
piano.  The  room  was  littered  with  scraps  of  bonbons 
and  crushed  flowers ;  dirty  saucers,  half  filled  with 
sherbet,  marked  a  second  supper. 

Jerome  turned  out  the  lights  and  closed  the  door. 
Life  was  a  little  like  the  room,  he  felt,  filled  with  the 
tag  ends  of  others'  leavings. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-ONE 

ON  the  Monday  morning  following  the  wedding, 
Jerome  was  at  the  office  earlier  than  usual. 
After  the  lonely  Sunday  behind  him,  the  day  ahead 
was  filled  with  expectation.  First,  he  would  tell  Jean 
about  the  trip.  There  were  many  things  he  wanted  to 
tell  her,  things  that  no  one  else  would  quite  get.  And 
then  they  would  lay  out  the  program  for  the  piers. 

The  morning  passed  quickly,  with  only  a  few  lulls 
in  which  Jerome  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  smoked  a 
cigar,  made  notes  and  tried  not  to  listen  too  closely  for 
sounds  across  the  hall.  As  soon  as  she  was  free  she 
would  probably  come  in. 

But  by  mid-afternoon  it  was  not  so  easy  to  keep 
from  listening.  For  one  thing,  it  was  suffocatingly  hot, 
and  for  another,  he  was  not  sure  that  Jean  had  been 
in  all  day.  He  had  not  heard  her  come  or  leave  for 
lunch,  and  usually  her  hours  were  punctual.  At  three 
o'clock  Jerome  closed  the  transom.  It  made  him 
nervous  to  sit  listening  for  sounds  from  Jean's  office. 
As  soon  as  she  was  free  she  would  come  in.  It  was  the 
kind  of  thing  Jean  did. 

But  Jean  did  not  come. 

Neither  on  Tuesday  nor  on  Wednesday.  Thursday 
morning,  Jerome  crossed  the  hall  almost  to  Jean's 
door,  and  came  back.  If  Jean  were  so  busy  that  she 
had  not  a  moment  for  him  he  did  not  wish  to  intrude. 
And  if  Jean  had  lost  her  interest  in  the  conference,  or 
had  only  pretended  one,  still  less  did  he  wish  to  force 
her.  Besides  there  were  the  piers.  Jean  had  been  as 

432 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          433 

eager  as  he  and  it  had  been  understood  that  they  would 
begin  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  over. 

On  Friday  afternoon,  Jerome  opened  the  transom. 
Jean  Herrick  could  come  or  not,  exactly  as  she  liked. 
He  would  not  mention  the  conference  and  if  she  felt 
obliged  to  inquire  he  would  cut  her  short  as  grace 
fully  as  he  could.  As  for  the  piers,  if  it  suited  his  con 
venience  by  the  time  she  strolled  round,  he  would  do 
them,  and  if  it  did  not,  she  could  do  them  alone. 

On  Saturday  he  did  not  go  to  the  office  at  all,  but 
stayed  home  and  worked  in  the  garden.  He  pulled 
down  a  summer  house  that  had  really  been  a  charming 
place  to  sit,  and  finished  pruning  and  clipping  every 
shrub  that  had  escaped  in  the  long,  empty  evenings  of 
the  past  week. 

On  Sunday  he  took  Pips,  and  set  out  for  a  long 
tramp  right  after  lunch.  But  he  had  lost  the  habit 
of  tramping  alone  ever  since  Alice  had  been  old  enough 
to  go  with  him;  so,  although  he  had  intended  to  stay 
out  until  evening,  at  three  he  turned  back.  The  heat 
was  at  its  apex,  but  under  pretense  that  it  was  really 
getting  cooler,  Jerome  increased  his  pace,  until  Pips 
suddenly  dropped  panting  under  a  tree  and  refused  to 
budge. 

"All  right,  old  man,  have  it  your  own  way." 

Jerome  stretched  beside  him.  Pips  snapped  languid 
ly  at  a  few  gnats  and  went  to  sleep.  But  Jerome  could 
not  sleep.  His  head  felt  hot  and  empty,  and  although 
he  had  accomplished  nothing  all  day,  he  was  exhausted 
with  the  effort  of  getting  rid  of  the  hours.  He  tried 
to  find  something  interesting  to  think  about,  but  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  worth  wasting  a  thought  upon. 
The  week  ahead  stretched  as  flat  and  monotonous  be 
fore  him  as  the  week  behind.  There  was  nothing,  ex 
cept  the  problem  of  Jean's  inexplicable  behavior. 

She  had  not  gone  on  a  vacation  because  she  had  told 
him  half  a  dozen  times  she  did  not  intend  to  take  one. 


434          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Summer,  everywhere,  was  dull  and  he  could  imagine  no 
work  that  would  call  her  out  of  town.  No.  Jean  was 
following  some  whim  of  her  own,  with  no  consideration 
of  upsetting  him. 

That  was  the  trouble  with  women  who  had  brains, 
especially  after  they  had  passed  their  first  youth ;  they 
got  so  set  in  their  habits,  that  consideration  for  others 
never  occurred  to  them.  No  doubt,  Jean  was  quite  un 
conscious  of  causing  him  any  inconvenience. 

And  there  he  was  wondering  about  Jean  when  he  had 
definitely  put  her  out  of  his  thoughts  a  dozen  times  that 
week. 

Queer  how  a  thought  persisted  against  one's  wish. 

A  thought  ought  to  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  keep  where  you  wanted  it.  A  person  could  intrude, 
or  an  extraneous  body  inject  itself  into  your  cosmos, 
but  a  thought  didn't  exist  apart  from  yourself,  and 
if  you  didn't  want  it  there,  why  did  it  come? 

Interesting  business,  Thought,  like  a  demon,  dwelling 
inside  and  ordering  you  about  at  its  will.  Fascinating, 
if  you  got  to  really  thinking  about  Thought.  Jerome 
gripped  the  idea  of  Thought,  dragged  it  along  with  him 
like  a  companion  over  the  field  of  the  Will  and  the 
Subconscious,  until  he  brought  up  in  a  conversation  he 
had  had  a  few  days  before  with  the  psycho-analyst  he 
had  corralled  for  Tony's  tea. 

But  now,  as  soon  as  he  thought  of  him  in  relation 
to  the  tea,  Jean  rose  from  nowhere,  drove  out  the 
psycho-analyst  and  usurped  his  place.  Jean  as  she 
had  looked  when  he  came  in  through  the  glass  door, 
amused  and  a  little  sad ;  Jean  at  th§  gate :  dimming  in 
the  dusk;  as  she  had  looked  when  tliey  first  talked  of 
the  piers,  eager  and  alive  in  every  nerve ;  standing  close 
while  Tony  played,  in  the  candle  lighted  room,  with 
the  thick,  heavy  odor  of  hothouse  plants;  as  merry 
and  teasing  as  Alice,  at  supper  afterwards,  in  "the 
little  joint";  at  the  concert — 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  435 

Jerome  jumped  up.  "Here,  boy.  It  must  be  almost 
six." 

He  took  a  short  cut  back  across  the  fields  and  entered 
the  kitchen  just  as  the  clock  struck  five.  On  a  table, 
covered  by  a  white  cloth,  mysterious  humps  disclosed 
Malone's  provision  for  his  supper.  It  made  him  think 
of  a  country  undertaker's,  with  grewsome  appurte 
nances  of  death  concealed  under  the  cloth.  Jerome 
lifted  the  edge  and  discovered  cold  meat  and  Malone's 
tragic  efforts  at  a  cake. 

Now  that  he  saw  his  unappetizing  meal,  he  realized 
that  he  was  hungry.  But  he  certainly  couldn't  eat 
there  in  the  kitchen,  although  it  was  arranged  exactly 
as  he  had  instructed  Malone.  In  the  living-room  it 
might  be  better,  but  by  the  time  he  had  partly  cleared 
the  litter  of  books  and  papers  from  the  table  the  dimen 
sions  of  the  effort  annoyed  him  and  he  threw  them  back 
in  a  worse  jumble  than  before.  There  was  a  card 
table  somewhere;  that  would  be  just  the  thing  to  set 
on  the  porch  under  the  honeysuckle.  Jerome  went  all 
over  the  house  looking  for  the  card  table  until  he 
remembered  that  it  was  in  the  cellar.  The  cellar  was 
unlit  and  he  had  another  hunt  for  a  lamp.  He  found 
it  at  last  on  the  top  shelf  of  the  pantry,  with  just 
enough  oil  to  make  a  feeble  splutter  and  a  very  decided 
and  unpleasant  odor.  The  cellar  steps  led  down  from 
the  kitchen,  and  if  the  kitchen  was  cheerless,  the  cellar 
was  a  vault.  Clammy  damp  enveloped  him,  and  the 
mystery  and  loneliness  of  unused  places  stored  with 
unused  things.  It  was  like  a  deserted  house  from  which 
the  inhabitants  had  fled  at  a  plague.  Jerome  located 
the  table  under  the  slats  of  what  had  been  Alice's  baby 
bed  and  a  broken  pedestal.  He  got  it  out  with  diffi 
culty,  covered  himself  with  dust  and  found  that  the 
hinge  had  been  broken  and  it  wouldn't  stand. 

Jerome  threw  the  table  down  and  went  back  into  the 
kitchen.  He  jerked  the  shroud  from  the  humps  and  ate 


436          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

an  unappetizing  sandwich  of  cold  beef  cut  too  thick  and 
bread  too  thin.  The  cake  he  had  just  mashed  into 
Pips'  food  when  he  remembered  some  jam  of  Alice's. 
He  found  a  single  glass  and  spread  it  thick  on  the 
remaining  crumbs.  The  cake  was  possible  this  way, 
but  now  it  was  all  gone  in  the  mash  for  Pips.  While 
he  watched  Pips  gobbling  it  up,  the  clock  struck  six. 
And  there  were  four  hours  yet  until  the  earliest  possible 
bed-time. 

Jerome  lit  a  cigar  and  went  out  into  the  garden. 
But  the  seclusion  and  privacy  were  gone.  Through 
what  had  been  a  luxuriant  privet  hedge  he  could  see 
the  lights  of  the  next  house  half  a  block  away.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  garden  it  was  worse.  Here  he  had 
cut  back  a  wall  of  hollyhocks,  to  give  more  sun  to  the 
pansies  below  and  then  left  the  hose  running  full  force 
until  it  had  washed  out  the  pansy  plants,  and  now  a 
mournful  row  of  bare  stems  guarded  the  empty  plot. 

After  all,  a  garden  was  an  unsatisfactory  thing.  It 
was  only  in  the  making  that  the  thing  had  any  power 
of  absorption.  Once  it  was  made  you  never  knew  how 
much  of  it  you  would  see.  Last  year  bugs  had  eaten 
the  roses,  and  the  year  before  scale  had  destroyed 
the  apple  trees.  If  the  shrubs  got  along  well,  then 
something  happened  to  the  flowers,  and  if  the  flowers 
acted  on  schedule,  then  the  trees  didn't. 

Spring  hit  you  before  you  had  made  up  your  mind 
what  bulbs  you  wanted  in;  or  hung  back  so  late  that 
you  had  no  time  to  plant  anything  before  summer 
scorched  what  little  you  did  have.  And  if  spring  and 
summer  acted  rationally,  just  about  the  time  you 
began  to  get  some  comfort  out  of  the  shaded  spots 
and  the  smell  of  things,  along  came  autumn  and 
stripped  it  bare.  There  was  always  a  senseless  rush 
and  change,  nothing  permanent  accomplished,  just 
stupid  repetition  over  and  over,  rubbing  in  the  analogy 
to  the  impermanent  accomplishment  of  one's  own  ef- 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          437 

fort.  After  forty,  a  man  ought  to  live  in  a  climate 
the  same  all  the  year  round,  where  the  futility  of  ac 
complishment  wasn't  always  being  preached  by  this 
eternal  leafing  and  blossoming  and  dying,  round  and 
round  in  a  purposeless  circle. 

Jerome  stopped  under  a  great  lilac,  pruned  to  naked 
ness,  and  glared  at  its  hideous  tidiness. 

"What  do  you  think  you  get  out  of  it,  anyhow?  A 
few  weeks  ago  you  were  as  bare  as  you  will  be  again 
in  another  few  weeks.  And  you've  been  doing  it  to 
my  knowledge  for  the  last  fifteen  years.  You've  never 
really  been  young  or  old.  You  just  go  on  and  on. 
And  the  little  you  do  do,  you  can't  help,  although  every 
spring  you  look  as  if  you  had  chosen  to  be  a  lilac  and 
had  it  all  your  own  way.  You  can't  help  being  a  lilac. 
It  was  settled  for  you  ages  ago  in  a  little  brown  seed. 
You  can't  even  prolong  your  blooming  a  week  beyond 
the  law.  You're  ..." 

Suddenly  the  lilac  reminded  him  of  Jean.  It  was  so 
strong,  untrimmed,  and  indifferent  to  his  tirade. 
Jerome  shrugged  and  went  back  into  the  house.  The 
silence  was  oppressive.  Malone  had  not  returned. 
There  was  no  reason  that  she  should  be  in,  but  it  an 
noyed  him  that  she  was  out. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-TWO 

AND  the  next  morning,  when  Jerome  came  into  the 
office,  Jean  stood  waiting  for  him. 

"Well,  when  are  we  going  to  begin  the  piers?" 

Jerome  hung  up  his  hat  and  sat  down  at  the  desk. 
He  knew  that  Jean  had  asked  him  something  and  was 
waiting  for  an  answer.  While  he  shuffled  his  mail,  he 
knew  that  the  welcoming  smile  in  her  eyes  was  quickly 
hardening  to  surprise.  He  did  not  care.  His  relation 
with  Jean  Herrick  was  no  longer  the  untangled  thing  it 
had  been.  For  eight  days  he  had  thought  of  scarcely 
anything  but  this  annoying,  self-centered  woman.  He 
had  destroyed  a  perfectly  good  garden  and  acted  like  a 
school-boy.  And  there  she  stood  wanting  to  know  when 
lie  was  going  to  begin  the  piers. 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten  them,"  he  said  at 
length,  still  fumbling  the  mail  as  if  Jean  were  detain 
ing  him  from  far  more  important  matters. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  thought  that." 

"It  didn't  take  such  a  stretch  of  imagination.  We 
had  the  first  scheduled  for  the  day  after  the  wedding 
— you  may  remember." 

"Didn't  you  get  my  message?"  She  might  have  been 
speaking  to  a  peevish  child,  so  forced  was  the  restraint 
of  her  patience. 

"No.     Did  you  leave  one?" 

"I  told  Minnie  to  tell  you,  but  I  suppose  she  forgot. 
Those  up-state  towns  suddenly  changed  about  waiting 
till  fall  to  organize  Consumers'  Leagues.  It  took  longer 
than  I  thought." 

Jerome  did  not  look  up.  Jean  added  no  personal 
438 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  439 

regret  for  the  inconvenience  she  might  have  caused, 
but  moved  away  toward  the  door. 

"You  still  wish  to  do  them  then?" 

"Of  course.  '  Don't  you?"  Jean  wanted  to  add  that 
if  he  were  going  to  continue  in  this  mood  she  hoped  he 
didn't. 

"Certainly,  I  do.    How  about  to-night?" 

'All  right  for  me.     I  kept  it  free  on  purpose.'* 

There  it  was,  the  high-handed  assurance  that  her 
plans  would  suit  others.  But  he  himself  had  suggested 
to-night  and  he  would  have  to  comply. 

"It  won't  be  any  use  starting  before  nine,  do  you 
think?" 

"No.  Not  unless  we  cover  two  in  the  same  eve 
ning." 

"I  don't  believe  I  feel  strenuous  enough  for  that. 
One  will  do.  I'll  call  for  you  then,  about  half  past 
eight?" 

He  swung  round  in  his  chair  and  Jean  suddenly 
noticed  that  he  looked  tired,  not  so  much  physically, 
but  as  if  something  had  gone  from  within.  He  was 
desperately  lonely  and  his  loneliness  had  escaped  in 
irritation  toward  herself,  because  she  happened  to  be 
the  only  outlet  at  hand.  It  was  what  Martha  had 
called  "a  man's  nature  cropping  out."  It  made  Jean 
feel  unaccountably  tender.  And  besides  she  had  prom 
ised  Alice  to  look  out  for  Jerome. 

"I  tell  you,  suppose  you  come  and  have  supper  with 
me.  I've  moved,  and  am  keeping  house  now  over  in 
Old  Chelsea.  Cooking  is  not  my  forte  and  I  won't 
promise  anything  but  delicatessen.  Will  you  be  my 
first  guest?" 

Jerome  did  not  answer  instantly  and  when  he  did, 
said,  with  no  perceptible  change  of  tone: 

"Thank  you.     I  should  like  to  very  much." 

"We'll  quit  punctually  and  gather  up  the  food  as 
we  go.  Till  six,  then." 


440          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

Jerome  continued  to  look  at  the  closed  door  several 
moments  after  he  heard  Jean's  shut.  Then  he  crossed 
to  the  filing  cabinet,  realized  after  he  had  searched 
through  three  drawers,  that  what  he  wanted  was  at 
home,  came  back  to  the  desk  and  sat  down. 

Suddenly  he  laughed  out  loud  and  began  to  work. 

At  six  he  locked  the  desk,  thoroughly  satisfied  with 
the  day's  accomplishment.  He  found  Jean  just  closing 
hers,  and  a  few  moments  later  they  were  going  from 
shop  to  shop,  collecting  supper,  with  much  happy, 
foolish  comment  on  each  other's  preferences  in  cold 
meats  and  pickles. 

Jean  remembered  the  many  times  she  had  done  this 
with  Gregory,  and  now,  that  memory  no  longer  stung, 
it  brought  Jerome  near,  extended  their  friendship  far 
beyond  the  year  she  had  known  him,  linked  him  closely 
with  the  past.  So  that  it  seemed  to  Jean  that  each  lit 
tle  separate  interlude  of  happiness  in  life  was  not  really 
separate,  but,  by  some  hidden  spiritual  chemistry,  was 
only  an  element  in  the  larger,  complex  solution  of  all 
possible  happiness. 

And  when,  half  an  hour  later,  they  stood  together 
silent  on  the  farthest  edge  of  the  roof,  and  watched 
the  sun  slipping  over  the  rim  of  the  West,  Jean  felt 
nearer  to  the  man  beside  her  than  she  had  ever  thought 
to  feel  to  any  one  again.  Nearer,  in  some  ways,  than 
she  had  felt  to  Gregory,  for  never,  with  him,  had  she 
for  a  moment  been  unconscious  of  her  love.  She  had 
never  for  an  instant  been  unaware  of  Gregory  as  the 
man  she  loved.  He  had  always  been  stronger  than  any 
moment  or  any  place.  The  deepest  peace  had  held 
always,  within  itself,  the  power  of  its  own  destruction. 
But  there  was  no  personal  claim  in  this  silence  with 
Jerome.  In  their  mutual  understanding  of  life's  lonely 
hours,  they  shared  the  peace  of  the  roof. 

"It's  another  world — absolutely  another  world," 
Jerome  said  quietly. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  441 

Jean  nodded.  "Nothing's  the  same  up  here.  Still 
ness  is  not  empty  and  color's  really  sound.  Sunrise 
and  sunset  are  like  tremendous  chords  on  a  great 
organ.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  some  day  I  am  going  to 
hear  it,  actually  hear  the  old  music  of  the  spheres." 

"It's  like  a  garden,  in  that  still  space  before  the 
dawn." 

"Sometimes  it's  almost  terrible  up  here,  then.  As 
if  the  night  were  some  indescribable  vengeance  that  had 
blotted  all  life  from  the  world,  and  as  if  everything 
were  being  created  anew  without  any  memory  of  death 
or  pain.  I  have  never  seen  anything,  except  the  sea, 
wake  like  the  city  does  to  a  new  life.  A  new  life,  every 
twenty-four  hours.  And  no  matter  how  many  you  spoil, 
there's  another  waiting,  and  you  can  drop  the  spoiled 
one  into  the  night." 

The  gold  and  scarlet  were  fading  to  saffron  and  sil 
ver.  A  star  peeped  from  the  edge  of  a  pale  green  pool. 

"It  would  do  that — or  else  make  you  feel  there  was 
no  use  in  anything." 

"I  don't  think  it  would  ever  make  you  feel  like  that 
really,  not  for  long  anyhow.  The  rhythm  in  it  is  so 
evidently  a  law — you've  got  to  be  a  part.  There's 
nothing  else  for  you  to  be." 

"An  absolutely  materialistic  logic  doesn't  seem  to 
fit,  exactly,  does  it?" 

"No,  it  doesn't.  A  few  dawns  and  sunsets  shake 
it  terribly.  They  make  you  feel  like  a  child,  listening 
to  a  fairy  story,  that  you  know  is  true,  no  matter  how 
much  the  grown-ups  scoff." 

"May  I  come  sometimes  and  listen  to  the  fairy  story, 
too?"  Jerome  asked  so  simply,  so  like  a  child,  that 
Jean  felt  her  throat  tighten. 

"Whenever  you  want  to.  Don't  bother  to  let  me 
know.  Just  come — whenever  you're  blue  or  lonely — 
or  just  logical  and  materialistic." 

Jerome  laughed  and,  on  the  lighter  note,  they  began 


442          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

to  get  supper.  When  it  was  ready,  Jean  spread  the 
small  table  outside,  where  space  opened  most  widely  to 
the  Jersey  shore.  As  they  ate,  and  Jean  told  of  the 
"kind  ladies"  to  whom  a  Consumers'  League  was  still 
a  form  of  charity  to  the  workers,  the  last  shreds  of 
color  faded  from  the  sky.  Shy  stars  ventured  boldly 
out  and  the  gray  deepened  to  night-blue. 

Gradually  they  fell  silent.  Jerome  felt  the  peace 
close  about  him,  the  tan^ble,  unfathomable  peace  that 
Jean  felt.  They  smoked  and  forgot  each  other,  look 
ing  into  the  night. 

At  last  Jerome  spoke,  softly,  as  if  he  were  interpret 
ing  something  whispered  to  him  in  the  stillness. 

"What  a  lot  of  useless  pain  there  is  in  the  world. 
One  feels  it  in  a  place  like  this,  almost  as  if  we  chose 
needlessly  to  be  unhappy." 

"Do  you  feel  that,  too?  Sometimes  I'm  afraid  all 
my  standards  are  going  to  be  upset  here.  Sometimes 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  gotten  everything  twisted  a  long  way 
back  and  that  it  was  struggling  to  get  right  again." 

"And  that  process  itself  can  hurt  terribly." 

Jean  smiled,  a  little  wistfully.  "I  am  beginning  to 
suspect  that  it  can.  It  used  to  make  me  furious  when 
I  was  growing  up  to  be  told  that  all  pain  was  'for 
the  best.*  But,  now,  I  believe  it  was  only  the  wording 
of  it,  the  tight,  prim  smugness  of  the  assurance  that 
rasped.  It's  not  that  pain  is  for  the  best,  but  it's 
simply  that  it  doesn't  matter.  It's  part  of  a  whole, 
and,  unless  we  can  make  a  new  whole,  with  no  so-called 
pain  in  it,  there's  no  credit  to  a  deeper  insight  in  just 
kicking." 

"I  suppose  it's  because  action  of  any  kind  always 
seems  the  stronger  part.  Rebellion,  in  some  way,  seems 
bigger  than  acceptance." 

"Perhaps  it  is.  The  way  an  agnostic  always  seems 
to  be  a  more  independent  thinker  than  the  believer  in 
a  higher  power,  a  God,  or  a  Spirit,  or  any  Force,  you 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  443 

can't  prove  by  logic.  It  seems  as  if  a  believer  must 
have  inherited  his  beliefs  ready-made,  as  if  he  could 
not  possibly  have  come  to  them  by  any  real  intellectual 
effort  of  his  own." 

"But  the  world  is  swinging  back,  it  seems  to  me. 
Perhaps  aeons  and  aeons  ago  we  thought  ourselves  out 
of  simplicity  and  now  we're  thinking  ourselves  back. 
Physicists  are  beginning  to  reduce  all  force  to  one 
energy  and  philosophers  seem  to  be  working  round  to 
the  one  spiritual  impulse,  love.  I  wonder  whether  after 
all  we've  left  Christ  and  Confucius  and  Buddha  far 
behind,  or  whether  we  haven't  caught  up." 

"I  wonder,"  Jean  said  thoughtfully.  "And  I  sup 
pose,  till  the  end  of  time,  we'll  go  on  struggling  to  find 
out  whether  it's  an  impulse  pushing  up  from  within 
or  whether  it's  a  condition  imposed  from  without; 
whether  brotherly  love  is  an  ideal  we  can't  quite  at 
tain  or  whether  it's  a  law  we  can't  escape." 

"And  then,  perhaps,  we'll  begin  all  over  again." 

"No  doubt  we  will."  Jean  pushed  back  her  chair, 
and  leaning  for  a  moment  with  both  palms  spread  on 
the  table  edge,  smiled  down  at  Jerome.  "In  the  mean 
time,  there  are  the  piers." 

Jerome  did  not  move.  "Let's  not  do  them  to-night. 
It's  wonderful  up  here  and  'a  long,  long  time'  the  piers 
shall  last." 

"But  I  haven't  another  evening  this  week.  And  you 
go  on  your  vacation  the  fifteenth,  don't  you  ?  It  would 
be  great  to  cover  them  all  by  then." 

Jerome  frowned.     "I  suppose  it  would." 

The  mood  was  gone  now,  anyhow. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE 

AS  they  went  through  the  small  side  door,  the  band 
at  the  far  end  of  the  pier  was  just  tuning1  up. 
Two  powerful  arc  lamps  shed  their  hard  white  light 
on  the  men,  and  the  rows  of  already  filled  chairs  about 
the  bandstand.  The  place  smelled  of  rope  and  tar 
and  dust,  but  the  lower  end  of  the  great  shed  was 
open  and  a  faint  coolness  from  the  water  penetrated 
for  a  short  distance.  Through  the  opening,  the  red 
and  green  lanterns  of  docked  ships  winked  enticingly 
and  at  the  next  pier  a  great  steamer  creaked  on  her 
hawsers,  as  the  water,  washing  against  her  sides, 
whispered  of  distant  lands.  Beyond  the  range  of  white 
light,  boys  and  girls  sauntered  hand  in  hand,  while,  in 
still  darker  corners,  couples  stood  whispering  or  silent. 

"This — after  ten  hours  a  day  with  your  eyes  glued 
to  your  machine,  afraid  to  move  in  case  the  needle  pins 
you  to  it  forever!  A  blinding  web  of  machinery  and 
then  a  few  little  hours  for  all  your  suppressed  youth 
and  longing  to  bubble  and  boil,  here  in  the  darkness, 
a  dark  full  of  lapping  water  and  the  breath  of  far 
away  lands.  Is  there  anything  here  about  sticking 
to  your  job  and  repressing  and  repressing  and  re 
pressing,  until  you  grow  too  dull  to  care?" 

Jerome. did  not  answer.  His  eyes  followed  Jean's  to 
a  thin,  rouged  girl  and  a  narrow-chested,  ferret-eyed 
boy  vanishing  into  the  farthest  shadow.  They  stopped 
beside  a  tower  of  bales  and  the  boy  took  both  the 
girl's  hands  in  his.  The  great  steamer  strained  im 
patiently  like  a  strong  lover  resenting  the  whimpering 

444 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          445 

little  waves,  eager  for  the  billows  beyond.  Jerome 
suddenly  felt  the  heat  like  hot  fingers  on  his  body. 

"A  tenement  room  with  people  everywhere  and  cry 
ing  babies,  no  spot  not  filled  with  some  human,  crowding 
body.  No  coolness,  no  privacy,  or  this — for  a  few 
scorching  weeks  when  you're  young — and  all  the  weary 
years  afterwards  to  make  up." 

"Oh,  please,"  Jerome  begged  with  a  quiver  that 
would  not  stay  under  the  forced  laugh  with  which  he 
tried  to  cover  it,  "don't  delve  down  into  the  instincts 
of  the  whole  race  for  this  little  job  of  ours.  You  make 
me  feel  as  if  we  had  undertaken  to  save  humanity." 

Jean  was  still  looking  toward  the  thin,  rouged  girl, 
drawn  deeper  into  the  shadow  now.  "But  the  instincts 
of  the  race  are  what  we're  after." 

"Well,  please  stay  on  the  surface  a  bit  more  or — 
you'll  make  me  want  to  slip  away  to  the  Spice  Islands 
too."  He  had  not  meant  to  say  it,  but  if  Jean  heard 
she  took  no  notice.  The  girl's  hands  were  gripped  in 
the  boy's  now  as  he  drew  her  to  him  behind  the 
bales.  The  next  moment  the  band  started  and  the 
girl  came  from  behind  the  bales,  rearranging  her 
elaborately  puffed  hair  and  giggling  as  she  passed. 

The  band  crashed  mechanically  through  its  cheap 
selections,  and  was  applauded  dully,  until  the  director 
hung  up  the  fourth  placard,  announcing  a  waltz.  In 
stantly  a  kind  of  shiver  ran  through  the  crowd.  Boys 
and  girls  jumped  to  their  feet,  crushing  each  other  in 
their  haste,  so  that,  before  the  band  had  played  a  dozen 
bars,  a  mass  of  moving  bodies  was  gliding  and  swaying 
in  the  rising  dust.  Round  and  round  they  went,  the 
dust  rising  thicker  about  them,  the  tapping  of  the  girls' 
high  heels  and  the  shuffle  of  men's  thick  shoes  drowning 
the  ripple  of  the  water  on  the  piles  beneath  and  the 
straining  of  the  ship  at  her  hawsers.  The  waltz  ended 
but  the  dancers  stood  linked,  furiously  demanding  an 
encore.  The  music  began  again.  The  settling  dust 


446          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

rose  in  a  fresh  cloud.  The  girls  relaxed  in  their  part 
ners'  arms,  and  the  boys  held  them  hungrily  as  if,  with 
the  certainty  of  its  short  duration,  they  must  wrest 
from  this  bodily  contact  every  thrill  concealed  in  it. 

Jerome  shifted  in  his  chair.  He  wanted  to  get  up 
and  go  back  to  the  peace  of  the  roof  with  Jean.  He 
could  not  look  at  her  and  yet  he  wanted  to  make  some 
comment,  say  something  that  would  drag  these  close- 
locked  bodies  and  gleaming  eyes  back  to  the  level  of  a 
civic  problem. 

Again  and  again  the  band  yielded  in  its  indifference 
to  what  it  played  so  long  as  it  filled  the  requisite  hours. 
The  partners  rarely  changed,  and  again  and  again  the 
thin  girl  and  the  ferret-eyed  boy  passed  near,  dancing 
a  little  apart  from  the  others.  Suddenly  the  boy  said 
something,  the  girl  tossed  her  head,  jerked  herself  from 
his  hold  and  came  to  sit  down  a  few  seats  away.  The 
boy's  eyes  were  evil  in  their  rage.  He  took  a  step 
toward  the  girl,  stopped,  shrugged  his  narrow  shoulders 
and  came  directly  over  to  Jean. 

"Say,  don't  yuh  wanter  dance?" 

Instinctively  Jerome  moved  to  interpose,  but  Jean 
was  smiling  up  into  the  pimply  face  and  bold  eyes, 
defiant  of  inequality. 

"But  I  can't  dance,  really,  not  a  step." 

"Say,  yuh're  kiddin'.  Why  anybody  kin  dance.  It's 
as  easy  as  rollin'  off  a  log." 

"Not  for  me." 

"Aw  come  on,  git  up  anyhow.  Yuh  can't  help 
dancin'  wid  me.  Jes'  listen  to  de  music.  One,  two, 
free,  tra  la  la,  it  gits  yuh  by  itself.  Come  on." 

To  Jerome's  amazement  Jean  rose.  The  boy  took 
a  heavily  scented  and  soiled  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  adjusted  it  between  Jean's  shoulderblades, 
clamped  it  fast  with  his  grimy  hand,  and  standing  at 
a  distance  that  marked  his  knowledge  of  Jean's  differ 
ence,  swung  her  into  step.  Jerome  rose,  shook  his 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  447 

body  as  if  freeing  it  from  a  net,  and  walked  to  the 
space  beyond  the  last  row  of  chairs. 

In  the  moving  mass  he  caught  Jean's  face.  She 
stood  a  head  above  the  pimply  face  smiling  up  to  her. 
She  was  smiling,  too.  Jerome  drew  deeper  into  the 
shadow.  He  lost  Jean  in  the  crowd,  then  she  glided 
again  into  his  line  of  sight.  She  was  still  smiling, 
apparently  unconscious  of  that  disgusting  hand  on  her 
back,  and  the  red,  pimply  face  below  her  own.  The 
thin,  rouged  girl  was  crying  now.  Jerome  stepped 
further  into  the  shadow  to  escape  the  circle  closing 
about  Jean,  the  ferret-eyed  boy  and  sobbing  girl. 

He  tried  to  drag  himself  back  to  the  first  moments  of 
the  evening,  alone  on  the  roof  with  Jean,  but  he  could 
not  do  it.  Something  within  was  pushing  to  the  sur 
face,  dragging  up  from  the  years  memories  of  his  own 
youth,  hours  that  did  not  concern  Jean  at  all,  moments 
of  need  baffled  by  Helen's  fragile  strength,  her  mis 
understanding  and  colorless  desire.  And  then,  of  Jean's 
white  neck  and  arms  and  the  thick,  soft  whiteness  of 
her  flesh. 

The  music  stopped.  Jean  was  on  the  edge  of  the 
dancers  looking  for  him.  -  He  went  slowly  forward. 
When  the  boy  saw  Jerome  coming,  he  sidled  away  with 
a  grin. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?" 

"Why  did  I  do  it?" 

"Yes.  Why?"  Jerome  saw  the  surprise  in  Jean's 
eyes  but  his  need  to  know  drove  him  on.  "Yes.  Why  ?" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  feel  for  myself  what  there  is 
in  it.  I  wanted  to  see  what  there  is  in  sheer  motion 
that  makes  it  worth  while  to  add  to  ten  hours  a  day, 
three  more  of  real,  physical  effort." 

"Do  you  know,  now  ?"  Why  didn't  she  move  farther 
away?  Jerome  felt  as  if  she  were  touching  him,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  as  if  his  body  were  formed  of  the 
hot  dust.  "Do  you?" 


448          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"You  would  have  to  try  it  for  yourself,"  Jean  an 
swered  coldly,  annoyed  at  this  fastidity  of  objection. 
"It  does  get  you.  There's  something " 

"So  it  seems.  Does  the  success  of  the  experiment 
demand  further  investigation?" 

"Let's  go." 

Without  another  word,  they  walked  the  length  of 
the  pier  and  out  again  through  the  small  door.  As 
they  walked  in  silence  back  to  the  apartment,  through 
the  chaos  in  Jerome,  a  little  thread  of  shame  and  regret 
drew  him  almost  to  the  point  of  speech.  What  must 
Jean  be  thinking?  He  could  not  part  from  her  like 
this?  And  yet,  when  he  tried  to  grasp  and  hold  a 
thought  in  words,  it  burst  like  a  rocket  from  his  con 
trol,  in  a  shower  of  scorching  sparks,  looks,  the  feel  of 
Jean's  cool  fingers,  the  maddening  composure  of  her 
clear,  gray  eyes. 

They  reached  the  door  with  the  silence  unbroken. 

"Good-night."  Jean  made  no  conciliatory  reference 
to  the  next  appointment,  as  she  turned  to  the  vestibule 
with  an  impersonal  smile  that  did  not  touch  her  eyes. 

In  another  second  she  would  be  up  there  alone  in  the 
inhuman  detachment  of  her  roof. 

"Good-night."  He  held  out  his  hand  and,  for  a 
moment,  hers  lay  in  it,  strong,  cool,  and  burning  the 
whole  surface  of  his  palm.  He  almost  flung  it  from 
him.  "Good-night,"  he  repeated  thickly  and  was  gone. 

After  a  few  moments,  Jean  began  to  move  slowly 
along  through  the  lower  hall  and  up  the  stairs.  She 
walked  with  strange  deliberation,  holding  her  mind  to 
the  physical  motions  of  her  body  by  force.  At  the  roof 
door  she  stopped,  as  if  afraid  of  what  lay  beyond  it. 
And  when  at  last  she  turned  the  handle  and  stepped 
into  the  full  moonlight  of  the  graveled  roof,  her  whole 
body  was  trembling.  She  went  and  sat  down  on  the 
corner  of  the  coping  farthest  from  the  spot  where  she 
and  Jerome  had  stood  to  watch  the  death  of  the  day. 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  449 

She  understood.  And  the  past,  by  which  she  under 
stood,  rushed  down  upon  her:  the  night  in  the  studio 
when  Herrick  had  asked  her  to  marry  him:  the  night 
she  had  stood  on  the  dark  street  with  Gregory,  and 
then,  so  quietly  and  inevitably  gotten  into  the  taxi: 
and  the  night  when  Philip  Fletcher  had  cried  and 
squeaked  in  his  angry  pain. 

Jean  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She  seemed  to 
be  on  the  edge  of  a  dark  and  dangerous  place.  Sud 
denly  the  blackness  was  pricked  with  points  of  light. 
They  forced  themselves  between  her  locked  fingers, 
until  her  hands  dropped  into  her  lap,  and  she  sat  very 
still  looking  into  the  future. 

Years  of  companionship  and  shared  interests. 
Work  and  understanding  and  tenderness.  The  need 
of  being  needed.  The  future  opened  about  her,  and 
Jean  cried. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-FOUR 

IT'S  impossible.  I'm  almost  fifty — and  there  is 
Alice." 

Whenever  Jerome  could  grasp  the  fact  of  Alice,  the 
night's  madness  dulled  to  acceptance  of  conditions. 
Alice  was  married.  She  would  have  children  of  her 
own.  He  would  be  a  grandfather.  Only  ten  or  fifteen 
years  of  real  usefulness  lay  ahead.  A  quarter  of  a 
century  of  comfortable  security,  uncomplicated  by 
emotion,  stretched  backward. 

Three  o'clock.  Half  past.  A  dog  barked.  A  dis 
tant  rooster  crowed.  Jerome  was  glad  of  the  sounds. 
Soon  the  "terrific  stillness"  before  the  dawn  would  be 
all  shot  through  with  these  safe,  pleasant  sounds  of 
every  day.  The  sun  would  come  up.  Milk  wagons 
would  rattle  down  the  lanes.  Malone  would  clump 
about  in  the  kitchen.  She  would  call  him  to  breakfast 
and  he  would  eat  it  while  he  read  the  morning  paper, 
propped  against  the  sugar-bowl.  Then  he  would  take 
the  eight  o'clock  boat,  as  he  had  for  fifteen  years,  and 
go  to  the  office. 

And  there  he  would  sit  waiting  and  listening  for 
sounds  across  the  hall,  inventing  reasons  to  consult 
with  Jean.  He  had  done  it  for  months,  incredibly 
ignorant  of  his  own  reactions.  But  now  he  was  not 
ignorant.  That  moment  on  the  sidewalk,  had  flared 
into  the  deepest  corners,  burned  away  the  ridiculous 
tangle  of  logic  by  which  he  had  convinced  himself,  the 
night  of  the  concert,  that  his  emotion  had  been 
"biological."  Good  God,  he  had  called  it  that,  a 

450 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM  451 

momentary  spark,  struck  from  the  cold  past,  by  the 
unexpected  beauty  of  Jean's  flesh! 

It  was  no  momentary  spark.  He  did  not  want  to 
take  Jean  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  once,  as  he  had 
wanted  to  do  that  night.  He  wanted  her  for  always, 
day  and  night,  to  share  with  her  the  years  before  them. 

And  he  was  almost  fifty.  A  thousand  little  habits, 
acquired  through  years,  locked  him  fast.  Alice  and 
he  had  walked  happily  side  by  side.  Jean's  path 
would  not  run  parallel  to  his.  It  would  cross  and 
crisscross. 

She  was  strong.  She  pulsed  with  life.  She  might 
want  a  child.  He  and  Jean  and  their  child.  And 
Alice  and  Sidney  and  Sidney,  Junior.  Like  an  im 
migrant  family  with  the  generations  overlapping. 
Sidney  Junior  grinned  and  gurgled  at  him. 

The  sun  rose.  The  night  dew  melted.  The  earth 
awoke  refreshed  and  younger  than  the  youngest  human 
thing  upon  it.  Jerome  went  wearily  back  into  the 
house.  He  felt  old  and  confused  with  the  night's 
thinking,  hours  of  balancing  between — fifty  arid  thirty. 
Aching  with  a  body-hunger  his  brain  could  not  ap 
pease,  blind  in  this  storm  of  desire,  lit  with  lightning 
flashes  of  self-ridicule,  with  amazement  of  the  thing, 
with  disbelief  in  its  possibility,  with  the  gurgling  of 
Sidney,  Junior,  with  strange  reluctance  and  anger. 

Milk  wagons  rattled  down  the  lane.  The  sun  rose 
full  over  the  hilltops.  A  new  day  was  begun,  one  of 
those  new  days,  one  of  those  "twenty-four  hours  to 
make  into  what  you  will."  Jerome  smiled  feebly. 

"Another  twenty-four  hours  like  this  and  there'll  be 
nothing  left  of  me  to  do  anything  with." 

Malone  banged  about  in  the  kitchen.  At  last  she 
called  him  to  breakfast.  He  sugared  the  cereal  she 
set  before  him,  arranged  the  paper  against  the  sugar- 
bowl,  and  stared  at  the  headlines. 

When  she  thought  he  was  ready  she  brought  the 


452          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

first  helping  of  hot  waffles.  He  saw  her  look  at  the 
untouched  bowl  and  with  difficulty  made  her  under 
stand  that  he  did  not  want  it.  He  buttered  the  waffles 
and  poured  the  honey  on  them,  stacking  the  crisp 
quarters  one  upon  the  other  as  he  always  did.  And 
there  they  were  when  Malone  came  with  the  second 
plate.  She  stood  holding  the  covered  plate  until  Jerome 
told  her  impatiently  to  stop  baking  them.  He  felt 
that  in  this  unreasonable  world,  Malone  might  go  on 
baking  waffles  all  day. 

At  a  quarter  to  eight  as  always,  Jerome  pushed  back 
his  chair.  He  looked  at  the  paper  still  folded  to  the 
front  page  and  the  crust  of  the  single  slice  of  toast  he 
had  attempted  to  eat. 

"It's  fifty  all  right — or  I  would  have  eaten  it — and 
not  known  what  it  was." 

Then  he  went  into  the  living-room.  He  wrote  two 
notes,  one  to  the  office  and  one  to  Jean.  He  was  called 
out  of  town  most  unexpectedly.  The  business  would 
take  several  days,  and  as  he  would  be  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  State,  he  had  decided  to  go  on  for  his 
vacation,  without  returning.  The  notes  were  brief  and 
almost  duplicates,  except  that  he  added  to  Jean's  a 
regret  that  they  would  not  be  able  to  finish  the  piers 
together.  He  sent  the  notes  by  messenger  and  packed 
his  trunk. 


Jean  took  the  note  from  the  boy  and  laid  it  un 
opened  on  the  desk.  Twice  she  picked  it  up  and  put 
it  down  again  uncut.  It  was  a  scorching  morning  but 
her  hands  were  cold  and  although  all  the  windows  were 
open,  she  felt  that  the  room  was  airless.  She  crossed 
to  the  window  and  leaned  out  a  little  way.  Below,  the 
city,  like  the  sea  beating  against  a  cliff,  washed  the 
base  of  the  building,  where,  in  a  high,  safe  niche,  she 
stood  alone  with  the  note  from  Jerome  Stuart.  In  a 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          453 

moment  she  would  open  it  and  make  a  decision,  although 
she  knew  that  when  she  did  open,  the  decision  would 
have  been  already  made. 

Jean  went  back  to  the  desk  and  opened  the  envelope. 
She  read  the  half  sheet  and  tore  it  slowly  into  bits. 
Her  body  scorched,  but  her  fingers  were  icy  to  her  own 
touch. 

Jerome  Stuart  had  run  away.  There  was  no  love 
in  his  desire.  He  did  not  want  to  want  her.  She  had 
disturbed  his  peace  against  his  will  and  he  had  gone  as 
he  might  have  gone  to  escape  the  contagion  of  an  ill 
ness.  And  last  night  she  had  sat  for  hours  on  the 
roof,  almost  afraid  to  think,  because  of  the  small,  eager 
fear  that  had  come  upon  her! 

When  Minnie  came  for  the  morning's  dictation,  Jean 
felt  that  she  had  been  sitting  at  her  desk  for  weeks. 
Only  years  of  habit  made  it  possible  to  pick  up  the 
day's  routine,  but  early  in  the  afternoon,  Jean  left 
the  office  and  went  home. 

The  sun  beat  fiercely  upon  the  asphalted  gravel. 
Jersey  was  hidden  under  its  pall  of  smoke.  Nearer  at 
hand,  huge  chimneys  belched  their  blackness  into  the 
quivering  heat.  The  day  was  still  roaring  at  its  task. 

Jean  went  into  the  little  living-room  and  lowered  the 
blinds  to  a  kindly  softness.  Then,  as  in  the  old  days, 
before  a  problem,  she  began  to  walk  up  and  down. 

But  the  day  roared  to  its  completion,  the  huge  chim 
neys  ceased  to  send  forth  their  black  columns,  the  low 
ering  sun  thinned  the  black  pall  to  gold-shot  gray,  and 
still  Jean  walked  up  and  down. 

The  thing  that  Philip  Fletcher  had  found,  "the  call 
of  a  woman  to  a  man,"  Jerome  Stuart  had  felt.  That 
quiet  man  who  understood  so  many  things.  He  under 
stood  himself  and  he  had  gone  away. 

And  she  had  not  wanted  him  to  go.  She  had  no 
passion  for  Jerome  Stuart.  His  nearness  left  her  cold. 


454          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

She  did  not  long  to  help  him  as  she  had  longed  to  help 
Franklin.  But  she  had  not  wanted  him  to  go. 

What  tangled  threads  of  instinct  and  of  need  bound 
her?  The  age-old  woman's  need  of  being  needed?  But 
Jerome  did  not  need  her.  He  had  run  away. 

It  was  her  own  need,  not  Jerome's.  Her  need  of 
what  ?  Something  nearer  than  lives  she  never  touched  ? 
Something  of  her  own? 

It  was  cool  now  and  Jean  went  out  to  the  roof. 
Far  down  in  the  street  dwarfed  figures  hurried  by. 
They  had  finished  the  day's  work.  They  were  going 
home. 

Long  after  the  dwarfed  black  figures  were  gone, 
Jean  sat,  staring  down. 

As  the  days  passed,  Jean  came  to  wish,  more  and 
more  deeply,  that  she  had  never  seen  Jerome  Stuart. 
The  thought  of  him  filled  her  waking  hours,  and  at 
night  she  often  dreamed  of  the  moment  on  the  side 
walk,  only,  in  the  dreams,  Jerome  always  came  up  to 
the  roof  again.  And  in  the  evenings  when  she  tried 
to  read,  in  the  once  peace-filled  stillness,  he  was  there 
across  the  room,  his  shoulders,  with  their  student 
stoop,  bent  over  a  book.  He  stopped  and  read  her 
bits  and  they  laughed  together,  or  she  saw  his  anger 
against  social  injustice  crackling  like  a  fire  in  his  gray 
eyes. 

Three  times  in  her  life,  Jean  had  felt  the  old  land 
marks  slip  away.  Three  times  in  her  life  she  had  felt 
the  old  Jean  die  and  another  woman  take  the  place: 
when  she  had  left  Herrick,  when  she  had  received 
Gregory's  letter,  and  when  she  had  come  home  to  find 
Martha  dead.  Each  time  she  had  felt  as  if  no  future 
experience  could  ever  reveal  unguessed  depths  in  her 
self.  And  now,  at  thirty-nine,  because  a  man  whom 
she  did  not  love,  had  desired  her  for  a  moment  against 
his  own  will,  she  felt  .  .  .  What  was  it  that  she  felt? 
Not  the  ending  of  all  things,  as  she  had  felt  at 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          455 

Gregory's  going.  Not  the  loneliness  that  followed 
Martha's.  These  had  been  like  sudden  death  in  the 
midst  of  life.  Now  she  was  not  dead.  She  was  outside 
life,  watching  it  go  by.  And,  like  the  old  people,  whom 
she  had  watched  with  Gregory,  following  the  sun  about 
the  Almshouse  walls,  she  did  not  want  it  to  go. 

"For  a  few  years  yet  you  will  be  a  woman." 

Jean  went  slowly  across  the  roof,  through  the  living- 
room,  to  the  small  Hue  and  white  bedroom.  She  turned 
on  the  light  above  the  mirror  and  looked  calmly  into 
it.  In  the  last  two  years  the  band  of  gray  above  her 
ears  had  thickened.  There  were  faint  lines,  very  faint, 
at  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  The  eyes  themselves  were 
clear  and  young,  but  now  that  Jean  looked  steadily 
into  their  frank  depths,  something  rose  from  beneath 
the  surface,  an  intangible  record  of  the  years. 

Jean  turned,  getting  almost  the  full  view  of  her 
body  in  the  mirror.  It  was  wonderfully  strong  and 
straight.  The  throat  and  breasts  were  firm  and  the 
flesh  soft.  Jean  remembered  how  soft  and  white  her 
mother's  body  had  been  when  she  had  covered  it  against 
the  draught. 

Her  own,  perhaps,  would  keep  its  youth,  too,  a 
mockery  of  the  lessening  power  within.  In  spite  of 
all  her  efforts,  her  enthusiasm  would  decay,  more 
quickly  now  that  she  had  recognized  her  need  to  keep 
it.  Her  body  more  quickly,  her  brain  more  slowly, 
would  obey  the  law.  She  would  sink,  with  tragic  un 
consciousness  of  the  process,  into  benumbed  indiffer 
ence.  No  more  stress,  no  more  impatience,  no  longing, 
no  regret.  Patient  acceptance. 

Jean  snapped  off  the  light  and  went  out  to  the  roof 
again. 

Jerome  Stuart  had  gone  away.  But  he  would  come 
back. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-FIVE 

JEROME  STUART  grinned  at  the  red-cap  who 
rushed  forward  for  his  bag,  at  the  transfer  man 
to  whom  he  gave  his  checks,  to  the  taxi  driver  whom 
he  beckoned,  and  finally,  when  he  found  himself  sitting 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  seat  as  if,  by  so  doing,  he 
could  force  the  vehicle  more  quickly  through  the  traffic, 
at  himself. 

For  a  little  over  two  weeks  he  had  managed  to  stay 
away.  And,  although  from  the  moment  he  had 
entered  the  train  to  return,  he  could  not  have  told 
why  he  ever  went,  still  less  why  he  had  stayed,  he  was 
proud  of  the  achievement.  He  felt  that  he  had  ac 
quired  a  power  of  self-control  that  no  emergency  of 
life  could  ever  shake.  He  had  fished  and  tramped 
and  played  tennis  and,  one  evening,  alone  in  his  room, 
he  had  even  tried  to  do  some  serious  reading.  At  the 
memory  of  that  evening,  Jerome  leaned  against  the 
cushions  and  laughed  aloud. 

"You  poor,  besotted  idiot." 

He  might  be  fifty,  sixty,  a  hundred.  He  might  have 
a  dozen  daughters  and  a  score  of  grandchildren.  None 
of  it  had  anything  to  do  with  his  love  for  Jean  Her- 
rick.  He  had  run  away  in  a  kind  of  perverted  modesty, 
just  as  a  child  might  refuse  a  longed-for  present  be 
yond  its  just  expectations. 

"It  would  serve  you  right  if  she  had  gone  away  and 
you  couldn't  find  her." 

But  at  the  thought,  Jerome  perched  on  the  edge  of 
the  seat  again. 

"Steady,  old  top,  steady.  If  you  go  at  things  like 
'456 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          457 

this,  you'll  bungle  the  whole  business.  And  then  you 
will  be  in  a  fix.  Besides,  you  know,  you  can't  dash 
in  and  ask  a  lady  to  marry  you,  when  she  hasn't  even 
the  least  idea  you're  in  love.  Cool  down,  grandpa, 
cool  down." 

Nevertheless  when  the  elevator  did  not  instantly 
answer  his  summons,  Jerome  ran  up  the  four  flights 
to  his  office. 

In  the  middle  of  her  dictation  to  Minnie,  Jean  heard 
his  step  and  stopped.  She  sat,  arrested,  for  what 
seemed  an  endless  time,  while  Minnie  chewed  her  pencil 
and  stared  at  her  own  new  patent  leather  pumps. 

"The  usual  ending — to  those  three  last — and  that 
will  be  all  for  the  present." 

"Yes'm."     Still  chewing,  Minnie  went. 

Jerome  Stuart  was  back.  In  a  few  moment  perhaps 
he  would  come  in.  He  would  come  in  with  no  memory 
of  that  last  moment  on  the  sidewalk  in  his  manner, 
because  that  was  the  only  way  the  old  relations  could 
go  on.  And  she  would  meet  him,  with  careless  surprise 
at  this  return,  two  weeks  sooner  than  he  had  ex 
pected.  He  would  tell  her  of  his  vacation  and  she  would 
report  the  lack  of  any  exciting  developments  while  he 
had  been  away.  Perhaps  he  would  suggest  finishing 
the  piers. 

He  would  sit  in  that  chair  where  she  would  have  to 
face  him,  unless  she  deliberately  turned  her  back.  She 
would  listen  while  he  talked.  Outwardly  they  would 
be  the  good  comrades  they  had  always  been.  But  the 
man  who  had  desired  her  would  be  there,  too,  and  the 
woman  who  had  sat  on  the  roof  and  cried,  who  had  ap 
praised  her  flesh  and  estimated  her  power  to  rouse  again 
his  desire,  would  be  there,  too.  Jean  shuddered.  She 
wished  he  would  come  now,  instantly,  and  then  decided 
to  go  before  he  could. 

She  had  changed  her  mind  for  the  tenth  time,  when 
Jerome's  door  opened,  and  her  choice  was  gone.  He 


458          THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

was  in  the  outer  office,  saying  good  morning  fco  Minnie. 
He  knocked  and  Jean  rose,  forced  by  some  inner  need, 
to  meet  him  standing.  "Come  in." 

"Back  on  the  job,  you  see.  How's  the  world  gat 
along  in  my  absence?" 

He  was  coming  towards  her,  the  outer  man  and  the 
other,  shifting  places  dizzily,  coming  straight  towards 
her,  lit  by  the  glare  of  those  moments  when  she  had 
considered  living  with  him  in  closest  intimacy. 

"You  certainly  do  look  like  all  outdoors."  She  had 
managed  to  say  it. 

"I  feel  like  it.  I'm  afraid  to  breathe  in  case  I  use 
up  all  the  air  in  poor  old  Manhattan  at  one  swoop.'* 

He  took  his  usual  place  without  offering  to  shake 
hands.  Jean  continued  to  stand.  If  she  relaxed  her 
muscles,  the  poise  she  had  summoned  would  relax  too, 
and  Jerome  Stuart  would  know  that  she  had  weighed 
her  power  to  waken  again  his  momentary  passion. 

Jerome  wished  that  Jean  would  sit  down.  It  made 
him  feel  that  he  had  interrupted  her  in  an  important 
piece  of  work  and  that  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  go. 
Besides,  standing  so,  the  strong  sweep  of  body  dis 
turbed  him,  and  his  resolve  to  proceed  slowly  and  care 
fully  was  shaken  almost  beyond  control. 

"So  you  haven't  taken  a  vacation  at  all.  Don't  you 
intend  to?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  may."  Jean  looked  away  to  her 
desk,  covered  with  papers. 

The  first  impression  that  she  had  given  of  pleasure 
at  his  return  was  gone.  She  was  frowning  slightly  as 
if  she  found  it  a  little  difficult  to  accept  this  inter 
ruption. 

She  was  so  strong  and  self-reliant.  She  needed  no 
one.  The  thing  he  had  felt  in  her  had  been  of  his  own 
imagining,  it  was  a  projection  from  within.  This  big 
woman,  impatient  to  get  at  her  work,  had  no  need 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          459 

within  her.  The  white  softness  of  her  flesh  was  a  lie. 
She  was  alive  in  her  brain  only. 

And  he,  in  two  short  weeks  had  lived  a  lifetime. 

For  twenty-three  years  he  had  thought  of  himself 
as  Alice's  father.  He  had  touched  emotion  only  in 
relation  to  his  child  and  her  life.  He  had  lived  in  the 
reflected  glow  of  others'  more  intense  emotions.  And 
this  woman,  with  her  ill-concealed  impatience  for  him 
to  be  gone,  had  dragged  him  down,  in  two  weeks,  in 
less,  in  one  night,  down  into  the  rushing  current,  back 
to  the  very  Purpose  of  Life.  There  she  stood,  waiting 
for  him  to  go. 

Jerome  rose.  If  he  stayed  another  minute  he  would 
tell  her  that  he  loved  her.  Or  strike  her.  He  did  not 
know  which. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  busy  and  I'm  keeping  you." 

"No.  I'm  not  busy — not  specially.  You're  not 
keeping  me." 

If  Jerome  Stuart  went  before  she  had  mastered  the 
situation,  it  would  forever  hold  its  whip  over  her. 

Jean  sat  down  but  Jerome  stood  where  he  was. 
This  reversal  of  position  brought  him  nearer,  so  that 
now  he  was  close,  looking  down  upon  her. 

"The  Adirondacks  must  be  lovely  now." 

"They  are." 

"You're  back  earlier  than  you  intended,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

Jean  was  smiling  up  at  him. 

Had  Jerome  Stuart  always  looked  like  that,  or  was 
it  some  quality  he  had  brought  back  from  the  open? 
His  gray  eyes  glowed  with  the  same  light  that  heralded 
dawn.  His  body  radiated  a  spiritual  fire  which,  Jean 
felt,  would  consume  any  obstruction  upon  which  he 
chose  to  direct  it.  It  was  the  Galahad  quality  she  had 
imagined  in  Herrick,  made  manifest;  the  courage  she 
had  overestimated  in  Gregory,  raised  to  the  limit  of 
human  possibility.  Jean  began  to  tremble. 


460         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

"I — I  am  rather  busy  this  morning — only  it  didn't 
seem  exactly  courteous  to  say  so." 

"Please  don't  be  insincere — ever — with  me,  even  in 
things  that  don't  matter  at  all." 

Jean  rose.  "Well  then — I  won't.  Will  you  please 
—go?" 

But  Jean  was  too  near.  He  could  feel  her  in  his 
arms  as  he  had  felt  her  every  night,  alone  in  the  moun 
tains. 

"You're  so  hard — so  terribly  un-needing — and  I 
need  you  so." 

Jean's  hands  gripped  the  desk-edge,  but  she  still 
managed  to  keep  the  smile  in  her  eyes.  She  could 
hear  Minnie  typing  in  the  next  room  and  out  in  the 
hall  the  elevator  clanked.  It  had  been  so  still  in  the 
studio  the  night  Herrick  asked  her  to  marry  him. 
And  the  night  that  she  and  Gregory  had  stood  silent, 
the  air  had  been  touched  with  frost  and  the  stars  had 
been  so  bright.  It  was  hot  now  and  the  glaring  August 
sun  beat  in  under  the  awnings.  The  city  roared  away 
to  vast  distances,  and  even  the  small  spot  where  she 
stood  was  filled  with  little  clickings  and  hangings. 

"Don't  look  like  that,  please.  Forgive  me.  I  won't 
offend  again." 

The  words  drew  Jean  back  to  the  moment. 

"Don't  you  mean — that  you  love  me?  That — you 
want — to  marry  me?" 

"Mean  it !  Of  course  I  mean  it.  More  than  I  ever 
meant  anything  in  all  my  life.  Jean!  Do  you?  Do 
you  care  too?" 

His  hands  were  on  her  now,  holding  her  with  as 
sured  possession.  And  suddenly  Jean's  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  what  I  feel.  I  want 
to  care.  I  want  you  to  love  me.  When  you  went  away 
like  that  I  was  angry — and  disappointed — and  I 


THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM          461 

thought  of  how  I  could  make  you  care  enough  but 
something  inside " 

Jerome's  hands  dropped.  "What  do  you  mean? 
What  are  you  talking  about?" 

The  tears  ran  down  Jean's  cheeks.  "Something  in 
side  is  dead.  I  do  care — every  way — but  that." 

"Then  you  don't  care  at  all.  You're  not  a  child. 
Don't  you  know  what  love  means?" 

Jean's  head  dropped  until  he  could  see  only  her 
quivering  lips. 

"Yes— I  know." 

After  a  long  silence,  Jerome  said  quietly:  "Then, 
there's  nothing  else  to  say."  He  turned  away. 

He  was  going.  In  another  moment  there  would  be 
no  bridge  to  the  empty  years  ahead. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  enough — the  rest,  everything, 
friendship — interest " 

Jerome  swung  round.  "Would  those  have  been 
enough  before — when  you  cared?"  he  demanded. 

She  stopped,  almost  touching  him.  "No,  they 
wouldn't  have  been  enough,  then.  I  didn't  know  their 
value." 

Her  eyes  were  very  gentle.  Jerome  turned  away 
again  and  walked  slowly  over  to  the  window.  Jean 
stood  where  she  was,  waiting. 

Could  he  take  less?  Could  he?  Know  that  there 
had  been  more,  sense  it  in  a  thousand  small,  intimate 
ways  that  made  his  blood  run  hot  at  the  thought.  To 
feel  it  and  never  to  share  it.  Or  worse,  to  know  it 
corpse-like,  forever  beyond  his  reach.  That,  or  noth 
ing  of  Jean  at  all. 

He  spoke  without  turning.  "I  don't  know.  Truly, 
I  don't  know.  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  I  could.  And 
yet — when  I  try  to  think  of  going  on  without  you -" 

He  did  not  speak  again  or  move,  but  stood  with  his 
shoulders  hunched,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  At  last 
Jean  went  to  him.  At  her  touch  on  his  arm,  he  looked 


462         THE  SWING  OF  THE  PENDULUM 

up.  His  face  was  so  white  and  fixed  that  Jean's  hand 
dropped.  It  would  have  to  be  all  or  nothing  to  him. 

"I — I  hoped  it  would  be  enough." 

"Why?    You  don't  love  me." 

"I  don't  know  why — only  that  I  did  hope." 

Jerome's  face  quivered.  "Why  did  you  tell  me, 
Jean,  that  you  know  what  love  is?  If  you  hadn't — 
but  now  I  will  always  know  that  you  know.  Why  did 
I  have  to  know?" 

"Because,"  Jean  said  slowly,  "I  do  care  and  I  want 
your  love,  very,  very  much." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Jerome  turned  from  the 
window  again. 

Tlhey  stood  so,  looking  quietly  at  each  other  and 
then  Jean  said,  with  a  wistful  smile : 

"Shall  we  try  it?" 

After  a  moment  an  answering  smile  flickered  in 
Jerome's  eyes. 

"I  suppose  this  terrible  knowledge  of  values  is  the 
price  we  have  to  pay  for  feeling  at  all — at  our  age." 

"Perhaps  it  is  worth  it.    I  feel  somehow — that  it  is." 

"Do  you,  Jean?    Do  you  really?" 

Jean  nodded.  "I  almost  know  it  is,"  she  whispered 
as  Jerome  drew  her  gently  to  him. 


THE    END. 


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